Grander Design
by PineappleApproves
Summary: (Set before Beacon; heavy OC) The two of them were a match, I tell ya—a photographer and a witch that loved being the focus of any lens. Quite a match made in hell. A regular Bonnie and Clyde. I remember when she told me, "Monsters aren't born, Detective. They're made." I didn't believe her at first. Now, they've taken everything from me and I'm gonna pay them both back. [Complete]
1. Contessa dell'Opera

The lights over the grand theatre dimmed, a subtle indicator for the seated audience to hush. From beyond the grand drapes, she heard the orchestra warming up in the pit in front of the stage. Standing just behind the deep red curtains, she laid one hand delicately on top of the other, letting them rest against the front of her blue satin gown.

The notes of the stringed instruments grew more and more harmonious. When she heard them at last weave together perfectly, she knew it was time. She lifted her head, letting her rich chestnut hair fall in gentle curls over her shoulder.

The crack in the velvety curtains suddenly split wide, sliding towards either side of the stage to reveal its lone occupant. A wide beam of light focused on her and brightened the dimness of the grand space.

She saw them through the darkness—thousands of eyes that had come to gaze upon the one and only Celestina Amonte, their ears ready to drink in her dulcet voice. It was a performance they had come for dressed in their very best, surrounded by the luxury of the opera house's stunning architecture.

The orchestra began the first piece of the night. The sweet, soft notes were soon accompanied by the melody of her song. It was a voice that mesmerized all who heard it. Perfection, her critics had praised. A voice of pure gold. They called her La Contessa dell'Opera. And anyone who considered themselves a connoisseur of fine art knew of La Contessa.

Her first performance of the night ended with extravagant applause. At the end of her second, Celestina left the stage for the intermission and the lights lit up over the seats. She returned to her dressing room in the back. There, a stagehand had left a glass of water for her. She sat at the vanity, spending the next few minutes of the intermission letting her throat rest. Celestina gazed at the reflection of the pretty young woman in the vanity mirror as she sipped her water. A hand drifted up and ran along the shimmery pearl necklace around her neck. Then, towards the end of the 15 minutes, she was called back out.

She stepped onto the stage. The lights dimmed, and one focused on her. There, she entranced the audience with a third song and was awarded with an equally lavish applause. At the eve of her fourth and final performance, a grand piano was brought out onto the stage. The orchestra pit emptied. Soon, it was only La Contessa as she played an elegant melody from the ivory keys. She had saved the best for last, and the audience aired its awe in a standing ovation at the conclusion.

Celestina stood from the piano stool and stepped downstage. There, she bowed, letting her hair fall in billowing curtains down the sides of her face. She rose with a bright smile, watching the sea of admiration before her. It had been another wonderful night.

They were leaving their seats now, taking the coats that had draped over their chairs to help weather the chilly journey home. Celestina had left the stage, heading back to her dressing room to fetch her own fur wrap coat. Something was waiting for her when she stepped in. Vibrant, crimson petals were in full bloom. The leafy stems, trimmed of their thorns, were wrapped in delicate white paper secured with a gold ribbon. But unlike the other bouquets Celestina had received from her admirers, there was no card amidst the roses—no identification of any sort of whom the sender was.

Celestina stepped out into the doorway of her dressing room until a stagehand passed by. When one did, she called the girl over and asked about the roses. "I think Natalie put them in there," the stagehand answered. "Let me go get her." She hurried away. Shortly after, the girl returned with the stage manager.

"Ah, Miss Amonte! The roses, was it?" A sly smile curled Natalie's lips. "It seems you've a secret admirer. A man came around to the back right after your third performance and told me to make sure you got those. Wouldn't give me a name."

"Strange," Celestina remarked. "They usually always want me to know who they are. What did he look like?"

"I'm sorry—I can't really remember. I was in a hurry making sure the piano arrived to the stage on time, and he left rather quickly… probably to catch your last song. But before he left, he did asked me about your next performance," Natalie replied. "You might get a chance to meet him after all."


	2. Encounter

_Six months prior._

 _It was the most cut and dry case Detective Ledford had seen in a while. While that made his job easier, it didn't make what had transpired at the crime scene any less grisly. Ledford had seen it before the paramedics had covered the body of Leo Curtis and taken it away. The late investigative journalist had been stabbed in the neck. A jugular vein had been punctured, and there was a wide pool of bright, thick blood where Leo had been found. But as horrid as it was, what he had been trying to do right before his death was worse._

 _When Ledford and the police had arrived at the back alley of the bar, there was one other person at the scene. This one was still alive, sobbing hysterically and covered in both her and the victim's blood. Cuts from a knife laced her forearms. There was a deep one slashed across her collarbones. Her dress was torn to hell. It didn't take a detective to know what had transpired in that alley._

 _It was just as cut and dry in court. Damning was the evidence against the deceased—there were traces of his fingerprints underneath the woman's on the knife handle, implying that he had held it first. The woman's attorney claimed perfect self-defense, and it stood. The jury had already decided the verdict even before the prosecutor ended her opening statement. In the end, the woman was acquitted of any charges._

 _Ledford didn't stick around for the rest of the legal proceedings. The evidence he provided had been used, and the case was behind him. And in Krimson City, there was always something that needed a homicide detective's attention._

 _Unexpectedly, someone approached Ledford shortly after the court session's close. It was a stocky man claiming to be the woman's manager. Apparently she was a singer, musician—something like that. He asked Ledford if he and anyone else who had worked on the case could keep it as hush-hush as possible. He didn't want the press catching the scent and plastering the incident everywhere they could stick a headline. It would mar her reputation and, more importantly, her mental wellbeing. Ledford had agreed, not giving it much thought._

* * *

Celestina held onto her appreciative sigh for until she reached the backstage. The chorus of applause rang in her ears even long after it had faded. She did always love the sound—the loud, overwhelming cacophony of adoration. It was what she lived for.

On her way to the dressing room, she was stopped by Clyde, the man who had helped La Contessa shine on stage ever since she had adopted that name. He congratulated her on another brilliant performance and reminded her of the mayor's gala in three days' time. Celestina gave her manager a simple smile and a nod. On the inside, she groaned. She had almost forgotten about that dull invitation. But that was what Clyde was around for.

After the reminder, her manager let her go on her way. Celestina reached up to flip her hair back as she continued down the hall. The white gloves were plucked daintily from her hands. Celestina came to the door of her dressing room. Her fingertips had just touched the knob when a voice called out.

"M-Miss Amonte! Um… E-excuse me!"

She paused, her eyes darting over to the source of the outburst. A young girl was tentatively scooting down the hall towards her. She was young—a teenager, Celestina guessed. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and the blouse she wore looked second-rate.

"You're not supposed to be back here," Celestina stated plainly, withdrawing her hand from the door to cross her arms.

"I know. I, um… I just wanted to ask—before you left—for a-an autograph."

The woman blinked. Her view of the girl very quickly shifted. "Ah…" she said softly. "Well… why don't we step inside, and I'll see what I can do?"

They stepped into the dressing room. Celestina found her eyes immediately snapping to the vanity. It was empty this time. Her lips pressed tightly together. She walked to her handbag and took out a fountain pen. "I think there's a pad in here somewhere," she said, looking around while trying not to disturb her delicately kempt hair.

"I've got this," she heard the girl say. Celestina looked back and saw a booklet being proffered to her. The girl opened it, saying, "I was thinking maybe, like, the inside cover."

Holding the pen leisurely in one hand, Celestina took the booklet. Her lashes lowered as she examined it. She realized it was a book of sheet music. Celestina turned away and set the booklet down on the vanity. As she uncapped her pen, she asked, "You are a pianist, signorina?"

"Learning," the girl admitted modestly. "Maybe… I don't know, someday be able to play on stage? Like you." Embarrassed, the girl quickly added, "I-I mean—!"

"Dream big," Celestina said as she penned a neat signature in the booklet. She closed it and held it back out. "There you go."

"Oh my god! Thank you!"

"What's your name?"

"Oh, um, Carolyn."

"Well, Carolyn, lovely meeting you. You shouldn't stick around or else a stagehand might come and shoo you out."

"Got it, and… and thank you again!"

Celestina turned away, listening to the door shut behind the girl. She glanced back down at the offensively empty vanity. The pen rolled between her fingers. Finally, her eyes snapped back up. She dropped the pen into her bag and swept up her coat. After tightening the sash around her waist, Celestina took her bag and left the dressing room. Eerily, there didn't seem to be a single soul in the hall. She took a left, heading for the theatre's back exit.

"Per favore prestami un momento, cara mia." The soft voice came from behind her, as sweet and alluring as a serenade.

Celestina stopped. She could have sworn the hallway was empty. She turned her head to the side, but didn't look behind her. In her peripheral vision, she saw the form of someone standing a few feet away. "Dipende," she replied coolly. "Valete mia tiempo?"

She was answered with a low chuckle and the sounds of his steps. _Tap… tap…_ They came slowly. Finally giving in, Celestina turned around. Her eyebrows rose. She didn't bother to hide her thoughts as her gaze fell onto her companion.

He was dressed crisply in dark purple. His unbuttoned blazer revealed the lavender dress shirt he wore underneath. The front of his black hair, though predominately short, swept down over his face and concealed an eye. A very odd choice of style, Celestina noted, but it was still somehow very enticing.

As he approached her, he reached into his blazer. His hand reemerged with a single red rose, which he held out to her. Celestina noticed the brown leather gloves he wore. She smiled as she gently plucked it from his hand, musing, "Just one this time?" She lowered her eyes and ran her fingers down the trimmed stem. "No white paper, no gold ribbon?"

"I felt this was more personal," the man replied. "More fitting for our meeting. What a pleasure it is, Contessa."

"Celestina," she corrected slyly. Lifting her eyes, she let her wrist fall back and brushed the base of her neck with the edges of the rose's petals. She didn't miss how the man's eye flickered briefly down to watch it before meeting her gaze again. "And will my charming company offer me a name?"

"Stefano, cara mia."

"Valentini? The photographer?" She had heard of him. Very few, especially in Krimson City, hadn't ever since his infamous photo had graced the public eye. Disgust and shock had been the common reception. And although it was an unpleasant image to behold, Celestina had never joined the uproar. That the lens of a wartime photographer's camera would capture the instance of death was to be far from unexpected—as anticipated as catching a mouthful of water while in the sea.

"I'm gratified you know of me." The deep pool of his eye locked her in. Against her skin, the rose paused. "Exalted as you are. I caught the sight of a sweet young child passing by on my way here, shining as bright as a spotlight." He smiled. "Rather nice when someone appreciates your talent, is it not?"

Celestina let the corner of her mouth curl just slightly. She turned abruptly and began walking down the hall. The sound of his following steps pleased her. "So far, my dear photographer, you've been nothing but flattering. I presume there's something you want from me?" She turned her head only a small degree towards him.

"As cunning as you are beautiful," Stefano replied, hurrying past Celestina to open the door for her. He beckoned her through with a polite, "Prego." She stepped through and waited for him to join her. "I'll admit—you had me entranced from the moment I witnessed your first breathtaking performance. And since then, I have yearned for the opportunity to immortalize such elegance."

Celestina slowed. Stefano did the same, holding her in his hawk-like gaze. "A model? Me?" She gave a short, airy laugh. "I am no runway model, Stefano."

"There's no need for such modesty," her companion replied. "It is simply fact, as sure and solid as finest marble, that you are a beautiful woman. Any picture with the privilege of holding your image is a thousand times better than without. All I ask is that you grace my work as such. Well, cara mia? Don't make me beg."

Celestina smirked. "Perhaps I would like that." She almost jumped when he suddenly took her hand. Her heart hammered as he brought it up and laid a soft kiss over her knuckles. She didn't know if it was excitement or fear she felt. Whatever it was, it was wonderful.

"Per cortesia, mia Contessa." Celestina couldn't suppress her shiver. Quickly, she covered herself up with a bold smile.

"You do beg so nicely." It was as though she were worried he could hear the pounding of her heart. "Very well. When shall you have me—as your model, of course?"

"How about, hmm… Saturday."

That was the day of the mayor's gala. Celestina wasn't sure if this little impromptu photo-shoot was going to extend past the evening. Even if it didn't, there were other things to do with this charming photographer that would. She'd have to get Clyde to send an apology the mayor's way.

"Saturday," Celestina affirmed. "I'll see you then."

"I look forward to it."

She was still dazed as she stepped out onto the lit street. It was as though she had exited out of a dream. Celestina watched the road and waved a taxi down. As she climbed into the backseat, she realized she was still holding onto the rose. Quickly, Celestina tucked it into her handbag and leaned forward to give the cab driver her address. She didn't notice the poster stapled to the wooden telephone pole right outside her window.

MISSING: ABIGAIL WINTERS.


	3. Love and Art

**_A/N: The Evil Within 2 Drinking Game - Stefano Edition: Starting from the City Hall chapter, take a drink every time Stefano says "art," "artist," or "beautiful." If you have even a moderately strong drink, I promise you that you will not be lucid by the time you reach his boss fight. Trust me._**

* * *

He welcomed the embrace of creation—the consuming fire lit within him by the spark of inspiration. It was beyond any drug known to man. Every time it reentered his system, he became obsessed, absolutely fixated. And the rush was maddening.

He couldn't wait to see what wonderful things he would create with this one.

The wide studio space slowly darkened as evening drew close. The setting sun threw shadows of the umbrella-like reflectors and easels across the open space. A line of marble busts lined the wall to the right, their ivory faces reflecting the dying light.

Large prints balanced on some of the easels. Others leaned against the wall—half finished. They were fitted inside mattes, but lacked frames. The work-in-progresses of his dull, distasteful commissions. Such was all that was demanded from him by his boring clientele, and it was a disgusting waste of his talents. But he knew they lacked too much in the space between their ears to appreciate his real work. And speaking of which…

She came delivered to him by a taxi. He watched from the window as she stepped out, dressed in a dark gray pea coat. A wide pair of dark shades obscured her face, and her hair was pulled back into a bun. A large leather bag was carried in one hand. She had the look of a woman trying to look as nondescript as possible. He wondered if anyone knew she was here. It would certainly save him the trouble if no one did.

But then he began to wonder. There were two things an artist needed—the art, and the admirer. He had seen her performance with his own eye, and wondered if maybe she could truly be considered an artist on his level.

An admirer would be nice. Never had his real art—his _true_ art—been admired by the few who'd had the privilege of witnessing it. Well, those who refused to appreciate the art became a part of it.

His brooding paused when he heard her delicate raps on the door. He allowed a few seconds to pass before heading over to answer it. When they came face-to-face, Celestina reached up and plucked the shades from her face.

"Ah, cara mia, I hardly recognized you," he jested lightly. He swooped down to deliver two soft kisses to both of her cheeks, a greeting he often had to restrain from now that he was in the States. Celestina, however, lifted her face expectantly when he did. He was careful not to smudge her immaculately applied bronzer. Her skin was incredibly soft.

"It is one of the curses of being a public figure, Stefano," Celestina sighed as she stepped through the door. "Even just a niche one. Imagine if a sneaky little rat caught a snap of me in the doorway with you just then. Could you imagine?"

 _Ugh_. The paparazzi were one of the many types Stefano hated—apes with cameras, smearing the good reputation of _real_ photographers like him.

"Especially since I was to attend a garden party hosted by our lovely mayor tonight," Celestina continued as she unbuttoned the front of her pea coat. "Don't worry—it's not like it was anything important. He just wanted me there to make _him_ look better."

Celestina was interesting. She was becoming a woman Stefano hadn't imagined her to be. If she was going to become art, she was going to be a truly unique composition. Underneath her pea coat, Celestina was wearing a cashmere tunic sweater that ended at the tops of her thighs. It hugged the curves of her waist quite nicely.

"It's a shame, isn't it," Stefano sympathized, "how those with little appreciation demand so much?"

"And yet I'm only here because you asked." Celestina laughed, and even that sounded like music. "I'm only teasing, my dear photographer." She turned away and walked further into the studio, one hand carrying her bag and the other held her coat. "Quite the place," she mused. She stopped by the westerly wall, which was entirely made of glass. "I bet that provides wonderful lighting, doesn't it?" Celestina's eyes fell on the photographs in their mattes. "Your work?"

"Commissions," Stefano clarified, following loosely after her as she explored the studio space. It was a little embarrassing that these bland prints were here for her to admire while his real treasures had to be hidden away. "Cara mia, let me take that coat."

"Grazie." She gave him her coat. It had captured some of the perfume from her skin. Stefano hung it onto a hook by the door and returned to the studio. He found Celestina gently stroking the cheek of one of the busts. "Is it just you here?" she asked, looking around as though expecting to see someone else.

"I tend to find company distracting."

"Doesn't it get lonely?"

Stefano didn't answer. To be honest, he never considered himself truly alone. Before he could say anything, Celestina quickly said, "Forgive me, Stefano. That was too blunt of me."

"Think nothing of it."

Celestina gave him a smile and turned to look at the far end of the studio. It was there that he had set up his shooting space—tall lights and reflectors framed a gray backdrop. There, a beautiful dark cherry wood table and chair had been set. Atop the table was a thin-necked vase with a single crimson rose. "This is… more than I expected," Celestina admitted.

"For the sake of beauty, I do not hold back," Stefano said. He had seen the posters displayed in the theatre lobby that advertised La Contessa's performances. Whoever had taken those portraits was a simpleton amateur compared to him, and he was appalled the theatre had even seen fit to exhibit such garbage. "Now, cara mia, shall we get started?"

She surprised him with a sudden burst of laughter. "Stefano!" she chirped. "Did you really think I'd wear this for my shoot? Just who do you think I am?"

 _Oh, I know exactly who you are. I've seen plenty like you. Molded plenty of those like you into my masterpieces, and you shall be no different._

"Where is your bathroom? I need to change."

He told her which door it was behind and listened to the receding sounds of her footsteps. As he waited, Stefano readied his camera. It was one of his most prized possessions—the conduit for which his ingenuity manifested into physical form. His mind began wandering. The cogs of creativity turned. Hmm… and then when this boring little photo shoot—this front—was over, how should he truly make her shine?

Stefano heard the door open, followed by the clicking of heels. He lifted his eyes and paused at the sight of her.

Her rich brown hair fell in lazy curls over one shoulder. Celestina had changed into a long black gown—a halter-top cut so low it nearly revealed her naval. The dress left little to the imagination. Her scantily revealed skin seemed to highlight the gleaming pearl necklace just above her collarbones. It was almost enough to remind him that there was beauty in a living subject as well.

"Is something wrong? Perhaps a little too… forward?" There wasn't an ounce of regret in her voice.

"Of course not. Whatever makes you feel most comfortable in your own skin," Stefano answered, watching Celestina walk to the table and take a seat. She crossed her legs, letting one emerge from the slit in her gown.

"Well, my dear photographer? I am your composition. Direct me as you will."

He stepped away from the camera, feeling her eyes following him curiously. "I hope you don't mind," he told her, "but I prefer a bit of music when I work." A vintage record player sat at on a nearby table. A glossy record was already placed on it, simply waiting for the needle to reveal its tune. Stefano switched it on and, delicately, rested the needle atop its spinning surface. The soothing notes of an orchestra lifted into the air.

"Tchaikovsky?" he heard Celestina note.

"Yes," Stefano replied, impressed and slightly bemused. "I'm surprise you recognized it so fluidly."

"I'm a musician," she said, leaning on the chair's arm. "It is no different than you being able to identify a Manet or a Rembrandt."

This one's words were like milk and honey. It was such a shame her words would have to be silenced once she became art—he did rather like listening to them. With her reclined gracefully in the chair, and the record player relaying the full elegance of a symphony, he began capturing her in his lens. His subject was undeniably a beautiful creature, but he couldn't wait to make her truly radiant.

Then, he heard her sigh. It was a foreign sound. Stefano lifted his face from behind the camera. Celestina, sitting in the chair with one hand lifted to delicately frame her face, looked… _bored_.

"Is your muse tired tonight?" she suddenly asked.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of her question. Part of him was angered that she had the gall to say such a thing, and the other part of him was heavily intrigued.

"Is there something that doesn't agree with you, cara mia?"

"I'm just a little tired," Celestina mumbled quietly.

"I see." Stefano straightened up. The needle was taken off of the spinning record, quickly cutting off the serenade of strings. Stepping towards his subject, he offered a hand to her. She took it and rose. "How about a break, then? And afterwards… we'll have a change of style."

"Sounds fun."

He led her around the backdrop to the second half of the home—his actual living space, whereas the front was very much his working area where the studio and darkroom were. This space, too, was relatively open with only the bathroom and walk-in closet being behind doors. Celestina chuckled airily as she stepped around. "How did I miss the entire second half of this building?" she mused. "Your home is quite beautiful." She settled down at a glass-topped table.

Stefano left her there momentarily to fetch a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and two glasses. Celestina's face lit up with amusement when she saw them in his hands. "You spoil me, Stefano!"

"Cara mia, you are the kind of woman who deserves to be spoiled." The Cabernet was uncorked with a satisfying _plunk._ It filled the glasses with a deep, thick red—a color Stefano was all too fond of. And he had found that after a few glasses, his compositions tended to be a bit more… compliant while he transformed them.

Their glasses touched with a "Salute" exchanged. As Stefano took his sip, he watched Celestina drink from her glass. He saw the movement in her throat as she swallowed. Ah, that throat of gold. He would have to be sure to preserve it.

But something was bothering him. He was beginning to question his desire to use her body as a medium for his creativity. But why? An artist of his caliber ought to not have qualms about his work, and these second thoughts pestered him immensely.

"Celestina," he said. "Indulge me—what did you mean earlier when you asked about my muse?"

Celestina cupped the swell of the glass in her palm. She gazed down at it. "I didn't mean to offend," she said. "It just felt like you were holding back on me." Her eyes lifted and captured his. "And after we've gone through all this trouble to get to know each other. Who are you, Stefano, and why are you hiding from me?"

This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. But even though things weren't going to plan, Stefano was fascinated. "An artist," he answered. "With a taste for the exotic."

"Which artist _doesn't_ have eccentric taste?" Celestina challenged. "It's such a common trait that it has become rather non-eccentric."

"Your glass is starting to grow empty. Allow me." Celestina held her glass out and let Stefano pour more wine into it.

"And your muse—she seems to neglect you tonight. How poor. You deserve one that fills you with so much… _excitement_."

As her words echoed in his mind, Stefano was sent back to the moment he had first seen her—that first breathtaking, heart-pounding performance. Oh, had it filled him with joy to know that there were other masters that shared in his taste. That there was someone who could appreciate the art.

"There is a button," Celestina continued, cutting through Stefano's thoughts, "behind the left ear of your center bust. Are you hiding a bat cave, Stefano? Or perhaps you like to drop people down to your pet rancor?"

He remembered how her hand had been on the bust's cheek. Stefano wasn't aloof to the fact that a normal person would've found that discovery rather off-putting. And yet she had stayed the rest of the night, even acted calm and innocent to make him none the wiser. Stefano was beginning to like her more and more.

"Would you like to see?"

Her answering smile told him all he needed to know.

The button opened a small trapdoor in the darkroom that was next to the busts. It led down to a narrow staircase that curled to the left as it descended. The darkness was blinding. Stefano felt Celestina's hand grip his tightly as he led her down. Was she beginning to grow frightened, he wondered? The very thought made him excited.

The air grew chilly. It was necessary to preserve his work. The stairway led down to a large chamber where their footsteps threw up long, ghostly echoes against the aluminum walls. Suddenly, motion-triggered lights came on as they neared the center of the chamber. There was four—one each for the glass displays at the far end of the room.

Within the displays were four perfectly preserved human heads, all of women. Jewels and feathers had been grafted onto their skin the semblance of masquerade masks. Stefano had been sure to generously cover their eyes, as the sunken skin and white cataracts hadn't been so aesthetically pleasing.

On the walls above the displays were the large, framed prints of the best photographs he had taken with these subjects—true masterpieces that perpetuated the stunning marriage of beauty and death. Stefano felt himself swelling with pride just at the sight of them. Oh, it was such a shame they had to be hidden away like this. A vile shame.

He felt Celestina's hand quickly tear away from his. His eyes darted to her, expecting to see a woman riddled with shock and panic.

But she was walking forward, her heels echoing grandly. She had one hand placed over her hip. As she stopped a few feet away from the displays, Stefano saw her gaze sweep over the heads before looking up at the framed photographs.

And then she sighed. It was laced with disappointment.

Anger pushed through Stefano like a knife's tip. She didn't like it. They never did. They were trapped in their dull, philistine, cookie-cutter perspectives—all of them! How cruel that his ingenuity was forced to exist in isolation among _bacteria._ He stepped forward.

Fine. It didn't matter. He would make her beautiful, and she would stay down here forever as a masterpiece.

"Such a shame," he heard her say. His steps slowed. "You are capable of so much more." He stopped.

Still gazing at the displays, Celestina crossed her arms. She walked to the leftmost one. "I remember her," she said. Stefano thought he heard a stroke of cruel disdain in her voice. "Went missing a month ago until her body was found—no head ever recovered." She turned to Stefano and held her hand up next to her head in the semblance of a phone. "Hello, is this the Krimson City Police Department? I've found it; it's right here." She dropped her hand and walked back to him. "Did you know she once made a snarky comment on the dress I wore to an opening premiere?" Turning back to the display, Celestina ran her hands down her waist and loudly said, "Well, tesoro mio, what do think of this one?"

Never could Stefano have imagined this happening. La Contessa was mad—a true genius. A true admirer. Finally.

"My work doesn't scare you?" He watched her face carefully, looking for even the slightest hint that she too good to be true. And if he happened to catch it…

Her arms were wound around his neck before he knew it. He froze, caught in the cloud of her perfume. "My dear photographer," she purred. "You tease me with your potential." Their breaths puffed out white in the small space between their faces. "I told you she was tired. Throw her out and let me in." He felt her fingertips rest on his cheek. They were cold like a corpse's. "Shall we go back up? It's dreadfully chilly down here. Oh, but you'll have to remove these gloves." She leaned forward and rested her chin on his shoulder, whispering, "They're cold to the touch, and I'll need you to warm me."

* * *

 _No one would be here at this hour—the dark alley spelled death, and no one in their right mind would be anywhere near here. What a good place to dump a few… undesirable items. A few insignificant byproducts left over as a result of his work._

 _So, of course, it surprised him when he heard voices—a man and a woman's. He paused, wondering if he should move on and dump his things elsewhere. He couldn't be caught with them. Not here, not now. But accursed curiosity overtook him and beckoned him to step quietly into the alley._

 _He couldn't make out their words, but he could hear the tones painted in their voices. The man sounded accusatory, demanding. The woman's voice was soft, defenseless. 'Oh dear,' he thought to himself. 'Are you in trouble, cara mia? Shall I remain a silent audience to the oncoming performance, or intervene and keep you for myself?'_

 _They were only visible by the meager illumination provided by the streetlight at the far end of the alley. He suddenly saw the woman turn back to the man. She appeared to ask him a question. The man responded firmly. She walked towards him._

 _And then what he witnessed stole his breath away. He was awestruck._

 _Quickly, as cold and mechanical as the knife she suddenly wielded, the woman pinned the man against the wall and had the blade through his neck up to the hilt. He tried to let out a shaky rattle—the last sound he could make before the blood filled his ruptured throat. But she even wouldn't let him have that._

 _Her gloved hand clamped tightly over his mouth. With a flick, she pulled the knife out and let the blood flow freely. It wouldn't be long now._

 _The man was still twitching against the wall. From where he stood, Stefano heard her._

 _"Shhhh," she shushed in a cruel, sadistic taunt._

 _And then she backed away. The body slumped heavily to the ground where its blood would paint the ground. But the performance wasn't over._

 _The woman pulled off her gloves and wiped the knife clean with it. She walked to the end of the alley where her silent observer stood. It was too dark for her to see him. She threw the gloves in the same crevice Stefano had discarded his own trash. Then—and Stefano could hardly breath as he watched—she returned to the dead man and transformed her own body into a work of art. Clutching the knife in the victim's hand, she slashed her forearms over and over again. Then she pulled her hair back scored a nasty one across her collarbones._

 _Bleeding freely, she took the knife and held it in her own hands. She coated it in the man's blood, and then dropped it next to him. Rising, she stepped over to the wall. She drew her head back and slammed it against the bricks, letting out a stifled cry. The woman delicately touched her forehead. The attempt wasn't to her liking. Stefano could sympathize with that frustration. She hit her head again. Even from where he stood, Stefano could hear the impact. That wound probably looked beautiful. If only he could've seen it from where he watched._

 _For her finishing touches the woman tore her dress, shredding it into a mess. She paused, looking around. No doubt admiring her work. Double checking that each detail was at its finest._

 _And then she screamed. She fell to the ground and let out another heart-rending screech. The sound was as exquisite as a song—the alluring call of a siren atop the seaside rocks._

 _With every performance would come an audience. Stefano knew people would be drawn to the songstress. It was time to step out. But even if he had only been a silent spectator, he knew this night had changed him. He had seen her, this unknown master._

 _In this crass, uncouth world, he wasn't alone._

* * *

Heavy breaths came in and out through his parted lips, pulling air into his drained body. His hooded eye stared listlessly up at the ceiling. He heard shuffling beside him and the mattress shifted as she got up. The soft pattering of her feet grew distant.

She must have gone to the record player and placed the needle back. The orchestra played up again. He heard her humming along from the bathroom. Her voice was just as alluring as it had been that night.

He closed his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he had never felt so revitalized. The spark of inspiration was gone. The fire was gone. It had all been consumed by the wild, uncontrollable blaze—the heavenly inferno that filled every vein in his body.

 _I've finally found her, my new muse._


	4. Engagement

He held the phone to his ear, using his other hand to click between emails on the laptop in front of him. His eyes skimmed briefly over the text on the screen. Then, he took his hand away from the laptop's track pad and pinched the bridge of his nose as he continued to listen to the voice on the other end of the line.

"So the layover's probably going to be another five hours, or at least until the storm blows over. That's what they told me." The girl groaned loudly. "Five hours!"

"See, this is why you don't fly," Detective Ledford said, knowing his grin was lost through the phone call. "You don't get accepted into prestigious music schools and you don't fly to Europe."

"Oh, _okay_ ," the voice on the other end replied with just as much wit. "You're right. I should stay in Krimson City and handcuff people all day."

"Hey. There's more to my work than that."

"Right, I forgot shouting 'put your hands up!'"

"Best part of the job." Detective Ledford's eyes flicked up when he saw movement at his open door. He saw a familiar face watching him. Arms crossed, Detective Castellanos lifted his eyebrows to relay the silent question, "You busy?"

Lowering his eyes, Ledford said, "Yeah, sorry bunny. I gotta go. Stay safe, and text me when you're about to board, okay?"

"Aren't we too old for nicknames?" came the groaned response. "Anyway, will do. Bye, _Jackie_."

"Bye." Ledford laid the phone down next to his laptop and resumed perusing through his emails. Slowly, the unread counter decreased. "How long were you standing there, Seb?"

"Since last Wednesday."

Ledford's next breath came out in a heavy huff. "That short? Shoulda kept you waiting a bit longer." He glanced up as Sebastian stepped in and sat in the spare computer chair. The office beyond the door was completely empty. The last officers had gone home hours ago. It was an unfortunately common occurrence that the two men here—the two work bees of the KCPD—remained long after the department had become a ghost town.

"Who's calling this late?"

"Ah, my lovely sis. She's on her way to France—stuck at the airport because of a thunderstorm, so she called me to pass a bit of time." That playful grin returned to the detective's face as he shook his head and added, "Only calls when she wants something from me. So selfish." He suddenly yawned and leaned back in his chair. "And damn, didn't realize it was midnight already!"

"Yup," Sebastian agreed grimly.

"Thinking about calling it a night?"

"I'm getting about ready to close up shop." Sebastian glanced out towards the barren office. "Figured I'd stop by—see if you were fixing to go too."

"Ah man," Ledford groaned, leaning on both elbows. He covered his face with both hands, and then ran them through his hair. "I goddamn _wish_. But at this rate, I'll be lucky to have a minute to nap under my desk."

"Don't tell me—another one?"

"Yeah, another one," Ledford sighed. "Missing. No body yet, but it'll turn up sooner or later. They always do." With a quick push, he slapped his laptop shut. Bending to the side, Ledford opened a cabinet in his desk and pulled out a fat folder that was starting to tear at the crease. He plunked it down on the tabletop and jabbed a finger onto it. _"This_ isn't coincidence, Seb. It's a serial killer."

"Careful, Jackson," Sebastian replied. "Guys around here don't like throwing around that word."

"And why would they?" Ledford said. "It's fine when talking about a movie or show—not so much when describing someone in your own neighborhood. But we're going to have to start using that word at the next press conference. At least before the tabloids and clickbaits start using it first." He sighed and opened the folder, taking out the topmost stack of clipped-together papers. "But something's different this time."

"Yeah?"

"Girl that went missing a few days ago wasn't any kind of model—not like the others. She was a local singer—is," he quickly corrected. "Death hasn't been confirmed." _But it's only a matter of time_.

Sebastian shrugged. "There's only so many models in Krimson City," he said. "Could be that whoever it is had to branch out a bit."

"That's what Radley said too," Ledford said. "But this change, even if it's only subtle, is still a change. So far, these murders have been methodical. For it to suddenly go off the track… I don't know. It leaves a real bad taste in my mouth." Suddenly, he let out a tired laugh. "Whatever, man. This isn't your case—you shouldn't have to worry about this. Go home, Seb."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You've got a family waiting." Ledford whisked the paper clip off of the papers and began flipping through them. "I've got a preliminary report to write up with what I have here so far, and then we're starting the search first thing in the morning. This shop ain't ever closing up."

"All right. Best of luck." Sebastian stood up. He took a step and paused when he spotted something on the floor. For a second, he disappeared behind the desk as he stooped over and then came back up with something in his hand. It was a metal nameplate. "How many times you gonna knock this over and make me pick it up for you?" He threw the plate onto Ledford's desk. The engraved words DET. JACKSON LEDFORD gleamed under the office's luminescent lights.

"Wait 'til you realize I'm doing it on purpose."

"I'll kick your ass."

Ledford chuckled. "Alright, get out of here already. Hey, tell Myra and Lily I said hi."

"Will do. Have a good night, Jackson."

When the door at the far end of the office closed, a heavy silence fell over the empty department. Ledford let out an exhausted puff of air and pushed his chair away from his desk. He leaned back, letting out a grunt as he stretched. Turning his head, Ledford spied the framed photographs sitting on the nearby shelf.

There was a picture of Mom and Dad—God rest their souls. Him and his little bunny, taken about two years ago on the beach. Then there was the picture that had been snapped right after he and Sebastian had finished last year's Warrior Dash—both of them were covered in mud, looking absolutely dog-tired but triumphant with their medals. And the mud caking the two of them sure hid the beating and bruising well. The far left photo was a gag gift that a few officers in the department had gotten together to get him a few Christmases ago. It was a photograph of his favorite actress. In the corner, there was a message written with marker that said "To my sexy boy Jackson" with an obviously faked signature. She was leaning on something—a wall or another person, but that thing had been erased and Ledford had been poorly photoshopped in.

Ledford tore his eyes away. _Quit stalling_ , he told himself. _You got shit to do._

* * *

There were two things he had gotten for her to commemorate the one-year anniversary of rebirth. Celestina was shocked and undoubtedly pleased when she saw the beautiful, glistening Steinway & Sons in the corner of the studio space. With a hand over her chest, she walked over to it and delicately ran her fingertips along the lid prop. Then she stepped over to the keys and played a chord. The notes reverberated richly from within the grand piano.

"Oh, this…" Her eyes flickered over to the man watching her. "Stefano, these aren't cheap!"

"Don't you worry, amore mio. I've a friend who owed me a favor," Stefano replied nonchalantly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. He looked up and spotted Celestina gazing back at him, her eyes afire. How he loved it when his muse gave him that sultry look.

She let out a slow sigh. It played from between her lips like a moan. "Oh, you are so good at making me _ache_ for you." She pressed up against him, wrapping her arms delicately around his neck. Lifting her face, she brought her lips close, expecting a sweet, sensual response.

Stefano denied it from her, and he reveled in it. He brought his hand up and pressed a thumb gently over her soft lips. "Not," he told her quietly. Celestina's eyes opened. He ran his thumb down, pulling her lower lip with it before letting it fall back in place. "Yet." He flipped his hand over and ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. "Amore mio, you know I hated seeing you so upset last week. You're right—she wasn't as beautiful or talented as you. But I've made such good use of her."

He saw Celestina's lips part. And then she smiled—a horrible, wicked smile that was breathtaking. "Stefano, you didn't…?"

"My latest creation," he said. "Inspired by you, for you. Would you like to see?"

"Always."

And he was excited to show her—oh, the refreshing excitement! What was art if it was not admired? If it did not receive the recognition, the veneration, it deserved? His eye focused on her like a camera every time he showed her a new masterpiece—drinking in every brushstroke of delight that colored her face like an alcoholic downing every drop. Even with one gone, one facet of his sight obliterated, he saw her so clearly. What weight did the words of critics have against a true connoisseur? What was the bleating of sheep against the sole human voice?

'Silence' was the name he bestowed upon this piece, and it made Celestina laugh so euphorically. The composition stood on tiptoe like a ballerina, one leg straight while the other was slightly angled backwards. Thin rods piercing the flesh and cords suspended from the ceiling supported it. Its head had been removed, and instead of a grisly stump, a bouquet of flowers sprouted from its shoulders instead. Wound around its neck like a choker was a gold ribbon. It held its head daintily in its hands, with one reaching around to cover its mouth. From its back, stabbed into the shoulder blades, were mirror shards that rose up in the formation of wings. The shards, held up by thin, polyester strings, reflected the beams of light focused on the piece.

It was the first one he had sculpted, not simply posed, and it was finer than any marble statue. And all the while he had molded this masterpiece, he was inspirited by the thought of his beautiful Celestina. The anticipation of her reaction had guided his hands. And he was doubly rewarded.

No words came from her—only the white clouds of her breath. Ah, she was speechless! Rightly so!

Stefano knew he would have never reached this height without her—this pinnacle. No, it was not a peak. There was nowhere else to go from here but up. And this muse of his—like a timeless moment caught in a photograph, he wanted her forever.

The camera he used to capture her was a question.

* * *

This year's gala, as always, was extravagant. Strings of light ran across the garden, forming a loose screen of star-like canopy over the guests. Round garden tables dotted the grass, each holding a single lit candle. Voices bubbled up over the cool evening air, dancing just below the notes of a live band.

She had said her hello's and given her polite small talk to the mayor. And he did that thing—took her hand and kissed it a little too enthusiastically like he imagined it another part of her body.

There was one reason and one reason only she had come to this little fickle gathering. Everyone here had something to show off—presence, mostly. The very fact that one was here meant something. The very fact that one wasn't here meant something even greater.

But tonight, Celestina had something other than her appearance to subtly gloat. And she did so by holding her champagne flute in her left hand, tilting her head back so she would hold it especially high. Under the garden lights, the diamond twinkled.

Then, finally, someone was bright enough to notice. It was an old friend of hers—Clarissa Denevor, a fashion designer who was married to a senator. "Ah, Cellie!" Clarissa said, her smile minimized by her plastic surgery-stiffened face. "Why didn't you _say_ anything? Who's the lucky man?"

"Oh." Celestina let her eyes lower bashfully. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and continued, "I met him about a year ago. Turns out we had _so_ much in common. It just sparked, you know? Like a wildfire."

"Is he well-known?"

"In certain circles, yes."

"Cellie!" Clarissa was never one to let any shred of juicy gossip go. "Don't you tease! Who is he?"

"I'm not sure his name would be familiar to you," Celestina sighed, swirling her flute in lazy circles. She watched the diamond on her finger glimmer in the light. "But if you want to know his name, just wait a few days. I'm sure the announcement will be all over the city."

Her eyes flickered up and caught the mayor talking with a woman a short distance away. She couldn't catch their words, but he looked utterly charmed by her. Who wouldn't? She was pretty with a short, blonde pixie cut that curled out from under her ears. Celestina pursed her lips together before saying, "Clarissa, dear, who is that over there? With the mayor?"

"Her?" Clarissa's gaze swept across the garden. "Oh, I've heard a little about her. Some up and coming little darling. Didn't get much attention until her appearance on Broadway a few months ago." She turned back to Celestina. "Maybe you ought to show her the ropes? Let her learn from the best?"

Celestina let herself blush from underneath her powdered cheeks. "Stop it!" she breathed. "Although…" She looked back over. "She does have that aura about her, doesn't she? That little dear could steal the spotlight from anyone she wanted." Suddenly, her face brightened with a smile. "Clarissa dear, I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you for a moment. I'd like to go over there and say hello."

* * *

 _\ * \_

 _With great pleasure_

 ** _CELESTINA AMONTE_**

 _and_

 ** _STEFANO VALENTINI_**

 _cordially invite you to join in celebrating their union_

 _Saturday, June 4, 2007_

 _at two thirty in the afternoon_

 _Rosenberg Chapel—Krimson City, CA_

 _Reception dinner to follow at the Zeratin Hotel_


	5. Silence

"Another beautiful sunny morning in Krimson City. We're talking to you live—I'm Alex."

"And I'm Sarah."

"—And you're listening to Morning Talk on Station Ninety-Five point Eight. What have we got today?"

"I'll tell you Alex. People are abuzz from the invitations sent out two days ago announcing the wedding of Krimson City's Countess of Opera, Celestina Amonte. Even more surprising is her groom-to-be—former wartime photographer Stefano Valentini, who was decommissioned after suffering an injury back in 2004."

"That name sounds familiar."

"Well, it's not your average, run-of-the-mill name, is it? But for those of you who can't quite put a finger on it—yes, he _is_ the one who captured the infamous Dying Soldier picture."

"That was a real mess. Sparked one hell of a controversy, and the Krimson Post had to immediately pull back as many papers as it could. Doubt you'll find it still in circulation. All copies are probably tucked away in attics or have been tossed. Of course, there is always the Internet, but we're warning you now if you haven't already seen it—it is graphic."

"We're going off on a tangent here, Alex."

"Ha, whoops. Yeah, what were we talking about again? Oh, the wedding. Makes you wonder what Celestina saw in the guy, right? He seems kinda creepy."

"I think he's sort of cute."

"Sorry, Sarah. He's taken now."

"Shut up, that's not what I meant."

"Well maybe you'll get your big break soon. You see this all the time with celebrity marriages—they don't last. And usually the fallout's over money or ego or something. And they don't start like normal weddings do. It's less of a marriage and more of like… a merger and acquisition."

"Getting a bit technical, Alex. For those of you who don't know, that's when one business buys another—like Whole Foods acquiring Wild Oats earlier this year."

"Exactly. It doesn't happen unless both sides have something to gain. And I'm not talking about love or anything like that. You got this photographer guy scoring it big with Krimson City's La Contessa. I mean, what guy wouldn't? She's hot—."

"Sorry Alex, she's taken now."

"—and you know you're doing all right when you're about to tie the knot with someone who owns a penthouse. Not to mention it'll catapult his name into the stratosphere. It's already starting to happen! We wouldn't be talking about this yahoo otherwise."

"If that's your theory, then what's the bride getting out of this?"

"She—hmm… well… I don't know. Maybe he's got a big camera lens."

"Wow, Alex."

* * *

Ledford sat at the driver's seat of his patrol car. The door was open, and one foot was out firmly planted on the gravel. He held the small radio tightly in his hands, waiting for any kind of feedback from the searching K9 units. The search for Janine Sawyer, the missing singer, had brought them here.

 _The killer always seems to dump them in remote locations,_ Ledford told himself. _One in a park. One in the opening to the sewers. One on the riverbank. They're trying to keep the murders as far from their daytime personality as possible. And I_ know _it's the same son of a bitch._

With a sigh, Ledford leaned back into the seat. _Bunny, I'm actually real glad you left Krimson City when you did. At least makes sure I clean this city up before you get back_. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. The search for Ms. Sawyer had been going on for almost two weeks now, and still nothing. That's how this string of cases was like—dead end after dead end, with more subsequent disappearances to remind Ledford of his failure.

And the nature of the victims tore at him too. All women—young, defenseless. Those who had whole lives ahead of them before they crossed paths with this sick fuck. _Takes a real coward to go after those,_ Ledford thought. _And when I catch them… When I catch them…_

Suddenly, the radio came to life with a voice. "Patrol KSR-4 to Ledford. KSR-4 to Ledford."

The detective quickly sat up, perching one hand over the top of the steering wheel while the other pulled the radio to his face. "Ledford here. Report."

"Th—uh." The K9 officer on the other end sounded flustered. A bad premonition was already creeping over Ledford. "Uh—body found, Detective. Female."

Ledford felt his heart skip a beat. _Here it comes_. "Can you confirm its identity? Is it Ms. Sawyer?"

"I—Detective, I…" The officer sounded on the verge of breaking down. "It—Unidentifiable. There were… heavy alterations made to it."

 _The fuck?_ "Understood. Give me your location. Detective Hendriks and I will head over immediately."

The officer gave him the directions. East? That went deeper into the greenbelt. Ledford reached over and started the engine. Then he contacted the second detective on the search. "Hendriks—."

"I heard. This doesn't sound good at all." Her voice was grave. "Meet you there."

Ledford pushed the pedal down and steered his patrol car towards the trees. As he navigated the vehicle between the spindly trunks, he switched the radio's frequency to reach all the patrolling officers and told all search and rescue units nearest to the body to converge. Then he hooked the radio back onto its holster.

The scraggly canopy of the greenbelt shrouded the ground from the sun's dying light. Ledford switched his headlights on, watching the sharp beam pierce through the trees. The officer's directions led him to an abandoned warehouse. The patrol car's tires jumped over the thick roots that had cracked the warehouse's neglected drive. There were already a few cars parked outside. Ledford cut the engine and stepped out of his. He saw Detective Hendriks closing her car door a short distance away. They met eyes for a second.

Ledford hurried over to her. "Some place," he muttered.

"Who would even be aware that this was out here?"

"A murderer looking to plant a body," Ledford replied dryly. "Let's go inside and see what's going on." He led the way as they approached the grim, looming warehouse. Ledford looked up and saw nothing but blackness behind the broken, rusted windows. Just as he reached for the door, it suddenly burst open. Both detectives jumped back as an officer came stumbling out. He only managed to make it a few more steps before bending over and vomiting onto the cracked driveway. Wide-eyed, Ledford looked at Hendriks, and then caught the door before it closed. They entered the warehouse.

The interior was dark. Cold loomed over the air. All was silent, save for the soft panting of the K9's. The derelict place looked devoid of any kind of activity or power, and yet eerily there was a single spotlight shining down in a pillar at the center of the large chamber. And when Ledford saw what was trapped in its beam, he stopped.

Beside him, he heard Hendriks stammer, "What the f-fuck?"

There it was—the body the officer had mentioned. It had been… posed. Almost like, and Ledford loathed to use such a comparison, a sculpture. It stood on tiptoe like a dancer, supported by the thin rods that were stuck into it like needles in an insect collection. Wilted flowers sprouted from its shoulders, and the head that should have been there was being held by its own hands.

And the _smell_. Ledford wasn't sure when she had been killed, but the body was starting to show signs of bloating. The greenish skin was becoming stretched and warped.

"I…" Hendriks said in a breathless whisper. "I… I'm sorry, Ledford. I need a moment." Her rapid steps rushed away, and the warehouse door grated loudly.

Ledford walked forward, slowly coming around the body. From its back, he saw two shards of glass jutting out from its back. Like… like the stumps of wings. Ledford turned away from it, staring at the far wall through the heavy darkness. The smell, coupled with the sight he'd just seen, made him dizzy.

Quickly, the detective shook his head. _Don't let it get to you_. _If this really was Janine Sawyer, then her family would want you doing everything you can_. Ledford turned back. His eyes avoided the body and snapped to the officers in the warehouse.

"Hey," he said, his voice loud and firm. "Do not lose sight of why we're here. Stick to protocol—forensics, start documenting. Leave everything as untouched as possible. Officers, take your K9's and do a thorough search of the entire parameter. Look for signs of anyone who might've been here."

At his words, they snapped out of their horror-induced paralysis and fanned out. Ledford headed back towards the warehouse door. He needed to check up on Hendriks and update Lieutenant James Vankirk on the discovery.

The cool evening air was a blessing. Ledford filled his lungs with it as his shoes crunched over the crumbling drive. He saw Hendriks standing a few feet away, back turned and facing the greenbelt. Ledford had never seen her, one of KCPD's most seasoned homicide detectives, this rattled before.

At the sound of his steps, Hendriks turned. Ledford nodded at her. "Hanging in there?"

"Yeah," Detective Hendriks replied. "I'm fine."

"Take your time." Turning away, Ledford pulled out his phone and made a call.

The ringing only lasted a short while before it was quickly cut off with a, "Lieutenant Vankirk speaking."

"Lieutenant," Ledford greeted. "Search and rescue found a body left in a warehouse in the greenbelt south of Congress Bridge."

"Has forensics identified it as our missing person?"

"No, and I think it's going to be a while before they identify it. This one's been mutilated."

"Beyond decapitation?"

"Way beyond."

Lieutenant Vankirk must've moved the phone away from his face, but Ledford could still hear the ruffle as he ran his hand over his face and groaned heavily. "Right. I'll send an ambulance over. Any leads on the killer?"

"No sir, but the investigation is still under way."

"All right, Ledford. I'll need a full report from you to go on. In the meantime, replicate that crime scene as completely as you can. Photograph every corner of that warehouse and keep your eyes peeled for any kind of evidence on whoever did this."

"Yessir."

Ledford hung up. He glanced over at Hendriks. "We can't let this get out," he told her bluntly.

The detective shook her head. "We can't," she agreed. "This… this, uh, this can't be happening." She raised a hand and pressed her fingers into her temple. "This is some, you know, like Victor Zsasz bullshit. It's supposed to _stay_ in fiction, not…" She let her sentence go with a defeated sigh and closed her eyes. "Not real life."

"I know," Ledford replied. He looked back at the warehouse. Its bleak, dilapidated face could hardly compare to the hellishness it housed within. "We need to go back in," he said. "Search everywhere. The sooner we lock this motherfucker away, the better."

"Yeah," Hendriks agreed. They walked back into the building. Inside, Hendriks veered off and spoke with a nearby K9 officer. Ledford stepped forward. There was a forensic investigator standing by the body, camera in hand. He looked uneasy as he held the device, hesitating.

"Here," Ledford said, holding a hand out. "I'll do it."

The investigator looked relieved, but tentatively added, "You sure?"

"I'm sure." The investigator handed him the camera. Ledford turned towards the body and raised the camera to his face. Three angles at most, he told himself. That ought to suffice. Ledford raised the camera and lined an eye with the viewfinder.

It was no wonder the investigator struggled to take a picture. The body was hard enough to look at on its own. But here, within the viewfinder, the eye was forced to confront this horrible manifestation of someone's sick insanity. There was no place to turn away to, no place to hide.

Ledford pushed the shutter button down halfway, letting the camera focus. Then his finger pressed down all the way. The digital SLR gave a sharp click. Ledford tore his face away from the camera and let out a slow, steady breath. Then, he stepped over to get a profile view of the body and raised the camera again.

It was then he caught something in the viewfinder and quickly lowered the camera. His eyes snapped to the ground by the body. Just outside the rim of light was something small—a card tent.

Ledford took the small handheld light from his belt. Clicking it on, he pointed it at the tent. It was made of white cardstock. Text printed in black ink read:

 **Silence (2007)**

* * *

Leave it to the good ol'Internet to be there for when she felt homesick. It was a quiet evening, and what better way to settle down before bed than to enjoy a bit of TV? The only thing on the tube here were shows in _français_ , and she was still too spotty to really enjoy it.

Luckily she could still watch her local favorite—The Miriam Show, on its website. It was only filmed and broadcasted in Krimson City. Miriam Bradley was the host of the talk show, and would often invite big names on for interviews. Even Adele and Russell Brand had been featured in the past.

She clicked on the episodes tab. At the top was the latest, aired just yesterday. Her eyes widened when she saw the featured guest's name—Celestina Amonte. La Contessa! She finally appeared on The Miriam Show! Excitedly, she clicked on the episode. The player was pulled up on the next page, and the circular buffer symbol appeared for a second before the video began playing.

The introduction to the show started as it always did—Miriam started with a short greeting and thanked the viewers for tuning in. She shot off a witty joke, which had the audience behind the cameras chortling. Then she introduced her guest and gestured a hand towards the right-hand side of the set. A few audience members hooted out with excitement while the rest clapped politely.

A woman stepped out onto the set, looking timelessly elegant in a bright red slip dress under a brown fur cardigan. Her lips were a matching shade of radiant crimson. The chestnut hair that curled lavishly over one shoulder bounced with her smooth gait. This time, she sported it in a way where it swooped down over her face and nearly covered her left eye. A gleaming pearl necklace rested over her skin. She smiled at the audience as she crossed the stage and gave a polite wave.

When Celestina reached the center of the set, she took a seat at one of the two plush armchairs angled towards each other. Miriam sat in the other.

"Thank you for coming onto the show! It's wonderful to have you here."

"Thank _you,_ Miriam. I do love this show. It's one of my favorites."

 _Mine too_ , she thought giddily.

"Really? That's flattering." Miriam glanced towards the camera, and then back at the woman sitting across from her. "Now I'm sure many in Krimson City already know, but ah…" She gestured towards Celestina's left hand, where a gold band glistened. "Congratulations on the wedding!" More hoots came from the audience. "I suppose we're calling you Mrs. Valentini now?"

Her eyes widened. Celestina Amonte was _married?_ Man, talk about FOMO!

"No, Mrs. Amonte," Celestina corrected gently. "You're not the first to ask. I must say, the custom confused me." She glanced out towards the audience. "Women in Italy keep their names. And besides…" A sweet smile decorated her face. "The name is already printed on all of the posters." Laughter answered her.

"Well we are _more_ than happy for you, Celestina. But…" Miriam cupped her chin in her hand as she leaned on the arm of the chair. "I'm sure you're aware of the, uh, _general view_ that most people have on your husband."

A manicured hand came up and gently fondled the pearl necklace. "Of course." Silence followed, spurring Celestina to lower her thick lashes and continue, "What can I say, Miriam? He is simply an artist who does not let the words of his critics deter him."

"It all began with his last overseas picture. People thought it was rather insensitive of him to publish it."

Celestina's hand paused. It flicked a lock of hair over her shoulder before falling into her lap. Her eyes rose to meet Miriam's. The shot switched to a camera that was concentrated on Celestina's face. Her eyes were impassioned as she said, "My beloved nearly lost his life capturing that photograph. Are you asking me to belittle it?"

"Of course not," Miriam quickly said. "It sure sounds like you're his number one fan."

The honeyed smile returned. "I wouldn't have married him if I wasn't." Her hands came up and rested on either armrest. "His style, his taste, intrigued me. They are quite similar to mine." Her eyes suddenly turned to the camera. "We both see the… grander design in things."

There was something strange in La Contessa's eyes just then. Something…

In an instant, Celestina looked back at Miriam. She bunched up her shoulders, suddenly looking very much like a girl silly in love. "It was very magical meeting him. Very much like a fairytale, if you don't mind the corniness."

"Well you certainly fit the princess role," Miriam quipped. Celestina laughed pleasantly. "And what about your other big news?" Miriam turned to the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, Krimson City's Contessa dell'Opera is embarking on her very first nationwide tour!" The set responded with loud cheers.

"Yes, this is something I've been _so_ excited about," Celestina said, her face practically glowing. "It's something I've dreamed of, and my amazing manager finally made it come true."

She watched the rest of the episode with a subtle smile on her lips, lying on her bed with her feet propped up in the air. The episode continued with Miriam and Celestina delving into other topics—fashion, Celestina's inspirations growing up, her love of music, et cetera. When the conversation steered towards her family, Celestina answered vaguely, simply saying that they had been nothing but supportive.

 _All the best, Contessa!_ She thought. _I can't wait to see you when I get back home_.


	6. Tied Connections

The car moved smoothly down the highway, occasionally switching lanes to pass the other cars. She sat in the backseat, one leg crossed over the other. Her hands rested neatly in her lap. Gold glinted from her left hand. The ring's counterpart was on the finger of the man sitting next to her, though it was hidden under the leather gloves he wore.

Eyes lowered, Celestina surveyed his gloved hands while keeping her face forward. Save for the nights they were intimate, he hardly ever removed them. And they were always cold to the touch.

This thing they had—it wasn't a fairytale like she told the masses. Oh, but the things she said and the photographs catching them together had everyone fooled. Couple goals, they said. But those sweet little photos—those 'accidental' snapshots—were just like any other photo shoot. Posed.

In all honesty, Celestina didn't want a fairytale marriage. She wanted one that was just like the gold band that symbolized it—wrapped around her finger. And who was more perfect, she had thought, than this photographer with his convoluted sense of art and delicate ego? One that was convinced he had found his muse in the flesh. And like a good muse, she would fill him with _so_ much inspiration. Narcissists were laughably easy to please.

That's what she'd thought. But she had misjudged. Instead of having him bend to her sultry, feminine will, it almost seemed the other way around. He seemed to hold her simpering in his gloved hand, only allowing it to reach his skin when he permitted it. And then there was his… other side. The one he used to snuff out lives like they were nothing—without the slightest care for the human being. It was almost as if he didn't realize they were people, only art. And yet maybe he did.

It frightened Celestina how someone could be so disconnected and yet so fully aware. And, as much as she didn't like to admit it, she was actually scared of him.

Funnily enough, that's what she found most attractive about him.

Suddenly, Celestina gave a loud sigh. She saw Stefano respond to the broken silence by twitching a leg. Testing the waters, she leaned against him. "Oh my darling," she purred. "This upcoming month will be so lonely. Are you going to miss me?"

"It'll certainly be colorless without you."

"And when I'm gone…" She put a hand on his knee. "Will your eyes stray?"

She felt the cold, impersonal touch of leather take her chin. Gently gripping her by the jaw, Stefano turned her face up to his. "Amore mio," he told her, his voice too quiet for the driver to hear, "what are they compared to you? I see them as nothing but blank canvases." He released her. Celestina fell back into her seat, only then realizing how fast her heart was racing. She could still feel the phantom of his tight grip pressing into her skin. Softly, she cleared her throat and looked out the window. They had arrived at the airport. Their car pulled up to the drop off.

"And look how they come," she heard Stefano say quietly. Crowded around the drop off, but held back by airport security, was a mid-sized crowd. "Cameras at the ready."

Celestina lifted her hand to the handle. She felt Stefano take her wrist. "Allow me," he said. "We are under their focus now, after all." He got out of the car. Celestina glanced out the tinted window and saw the crowd grow lively in response.

He obscured the view when he stopped by her window. The door opened and a leather-clad hand was extended towards her. Celestina looked up and smiled, taking his proffered hand with her left. His fingers closed down, covering the gold, and Celestina stepped out. No sooner had the heels of her knee-high boots touched the concrete did she hear the clicking of cameras.

The chauffeur took her luggage inside. When it was all checked in, Celestina stopped just outside the security gate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the reporters and others who had come to see her go. Lenses pointed, honing in like watchful eyes.

Celestina looked down to one of Stefano's hands as he gently gripped her by the shoulders. Then, they slid up until they came to a rest beneath either side of her jaw. He leaned down to one ear, brushing against her cheek as he did. Celestina held tightly onto the front of his blazer.

"Amore mio," he whispered. "Smile for the camera."

He pulled his face back and pressed his lips firmly to hers. There came the rapid clicking, immortalizing the image of love that seemed incapable of doing any wrong.

* * *

'You busy?'

'Yeah, sorry.'

'It's okay.'

Ledford tossed the phone aside and scrubbed his face with his hands. 'Busy' was an understatement. In the last three days, he had only stopped by his apartment once to grab a bite, shower, and take a two-hour nap. That had been roughly 24 hours ago. He was starving, exhausted, half-delirious, and determined not to quit until there had been at least _some_ progress.

His chair had been pushed far from the desk. Ledford stood with his palms planted on the desktop, looking down at the give separately collated stacks of documents in front of him. Each one was for a different murder victim—five in total, with the latest having been Janine Sawyer.

Ledford picked up a document of the first victim's stack to read the one underneath. Natalie McMann—Ledford skimmed through her dossier and the report on her death. Names of possible suspects had been listed, but it had been useless. This one had a solid alibi. So did this one. Ledford grinded his teeth. McMann's case had remained cold. Just like all of them.

A knock made him look up. Ledford hadn't realized how low he was stooped over the files. At the threshold to his office, Sebastian locked eyes with Ledford. Then, he placed a paper bag and fountain drink on the table by the door. With a nod, Sebastian turned away and disappeared.

The aromas that immediately wafted out of the bag triggered a deep grumble in Ledford's gut. Quickly giving in, he pushed himself off the desk and walked over to it. He picked up the drink and called out, "Thanks, babe!"

"Any time, sugar," Sebastian's droll voice returned from somewhere down the hall.

Ledford took a drink from the straw. He could practically imagine his sister wrinkling her nose while saying, "That's a one-way ticket to getting a candy gut."

Ledford pinched the bridge of his nose, still clenching the straw between his teeth. _Well, given the amount of calories I've been missing out on these past few days, I say there's no harm this time_. He turned to the back and began digging through it. _I guess a 15-minute break is in order_.

The effect that food on his concentration was amazing. Ledford felt as though this was the first time in years he had eaten. But as soon as he had crumpled the empty burger wrapper, it was time to get right back to work. He needed to comb through all the files again and find something, _anything_ , which might prove a possible link.

Ledford was sitting in his chair this time with the documents of the Emily Lewis case in his lap. She had been a fashion model and was nurturing a promising acting career when her life had been taken. As Ledford sifted through the papers, he came across a newspaper clipping from the Krimson Post that had been included. It'd been published shortly after Vankirk had held the press conference about the murder. Displayed with the article was the picture forensics had taken of the body at the crime scene. _Good fucking God,_ Ledford thought grimly. _The Krimson Post really doesn't sugarcoat their stories_. His eyes skimmed over the article. It summarized the circumstances of Lewis's murder. Yeah, Ledford knew the story inside and out—he'd written the 10-page report after combing through every scrap of evidence the boys in blue had turned in.

Ledford didn't know how this article clipping wounded up in here. Usually, he never bothered with these things. The press was a thorn in his side—they blew everything out of proportion. Sure, it was nice when they asked for pictures and sang praises when you did something right. But if you even sneezed the wrong way… Man, hungry wolves over a deer carcass had nothing on them.

Still, the clipping had been included, and it was relevant. That meant Ledford had to give it some attention as well. But then, as his eyes came to the last paragraph in the article, his grip on the paper tightened.

This was a new piece of information—an interview that had never come to his attention because the police had not conducted it. But what struck him weren't the words inside the quotation marks. It was the name attributed to them. _I've seen that name before!_

Ledford shot out of his chair and hurried to the desk. He put Lewis's file down and picked up another one—Amanda Cabera. He flipped down to transcripts of interviews and… There it was! That name again! He chose another file and rifled through it.

That name. Only a brief mention this time, just like in Lewis's file. Almost invisible. But it was there.

Ledford's eyes lifted, unable to see what was in front of him because of the thoughts racing in his head. Then he straightened up and whirled around. Whisking his leather jacket from the back of his chair, he pulled it on as he marched out the door. The lights were switched off with a quick flick of the switch and the door to his office slammed shut.

* * *

The pilot's voice filled the cabin, announcing that the plane would reach New York City in about 30 minutes. Boredly, Celestina glanced out the window and watched the textured landscape of clouds pass slowly underneath. How she'd long to go on this nationwide tour as soon as Clyde had given her the news. But how cruel it was that doing so delayed her honeymoon. Oh well—give and take. She wouldn't have traded this opportunity for anything.

"Celestina," she heard Clyde say, pulling her attention. She turned her head to the man sitting next to her. "We've got a bit of time before we reach the airport, and I'm sure you'll want to get to the hotel and decompress as soon as we land. Might as well get a bit of admin out of the way."

"Of course," Celestina replied.

"Now I've got this little checklist…" Clyde leaned to the side to pull a folded piece of paper from his suit pocket. "Just some tips for, uh, out-of-city shows. Seeing how this is your first. These are some good pointers I learned back in my Macy Clarke days."

Celestina bit back her exasperated groan. She detested it whenever Clyde brought up that name. It made him sound like some discarded trash sulking over an ex. Macy Clarke was a singer Clyde had been manager to several years back. Her fame snowballed to the point where she had swapped Clyde out for a different manager, one whom she considered of a "higher caliber" to match her rising status. But Clyde was working for Celestina now, and she so wanted to pull out that tongue every time it mentioned that name.

But she kept silent, hiding away her disdain, as Clyde began going through the list. "Oh, and right when you get on stage, be sure to greet the audience. Mention the city—they love that."

Celestina leaned her face against her fingertips, occasionally giving a nod at the end of each of his pointers. They were sound but… Well, her mind was beginning to encroach on more important things.

"Clyde," she suddenly interrupted. Her manager stopped. "Before we left, did you remember to send those flowers I asked you to send?"

"To Mrs. Newell?"

"Yes."

"I did."

Celestina smiled softly as she straightened up and rubbed the back of her sore neck. "Good, thank you," she said. "I'm sure they'll look lovely next to her hospital bed."

"And I'm sure she and Douglas appreciate the thoughtfulness."

Celestina looked back out the window. _That's what I'm counting on_.

* * *

Oh how he lamented the departure of his wonderful muse, especially now since her absence left him with nothing except the company of these feebleminded dullards.

For example, the curator of the Krimson City Gallery of Art. He had called Stefano down to his office to discuss one of his works that was currently on display. When he got there, the curator told him that he was debating on whether to take that specific work down from the rest of the exhibits.

Obviously, Stefano wasn't pleased, but he was going to grant this idiot the chance to explain himself.

"I just wanted to double-check," the curator said, looking at the large print that was propped up on a nearby chair. "I know we talked about this when you first submitted it, but the blood is fake, right?"

Within the bronze frame was a photograph of a white rose, its blossom lying just short of the edge of a dark mahogany tabletop. Underneath the rose was a small pool of crimson. It had seeped up into the flower itself, outlining the seams between each delicate petal in bright red. The blood was falling over the edge of the tabletop in two thin, viscous streams. Resting over the thorny stem of the rose was a feminine hand, its fingers posed listlessly over the thin green stalk.

"For the last time, yes," Stefano replied, letting his irritation surface just a touch in his voice. "It was corn syrup and red dye—just like what's used on movie sets." Oops, a lie.

"And the hand is… a model's or a mannequin's?"

"Real," Stefano stated.

"Can I ask whose hand it was? Those thorns look…"

"Nothing was harmed during the shot," Stefano said in a vexed tone, one hand clenching. The leather creaked. "It was my—let's see—then fiancé's. And the only injury she sustained was a sticky hand." Oops, another one.

"Okay," the curator replied in a tone that attempted to placate him. It did quite the opposite. "Well it's just that—and let me just preface with this, Mr. Valentini. I think it's a very well-done piece—."

 _Sure you do._

"—But I've gotten, well, more than a few complaints from patrons. They say it's disturbing, and I can't rightly ignore them."

Stefano wasn't quite sure what he was more astounded by—the disgustingly proletarian opinions of those too short-sighted to recognize an art form from a stain on the sidewalk, or this cowardly curator bending over backwards to their will. How did this simpleton even obtain his position? Oh, that's right. Other simpletons had appointed him.

Stefano sat back in the chair, his leg crossed. He opened his hands up before clasping them back together again. "That's disappointing."

"I know, and I'm sorry to have to tell you this. No one likes to hear this kind of thing about their work."

 _Don't try and pretend you know what it's like to be an artist. You just hang up the works_.

"Well is it your final decision to have it removed?"

"It's what I'm leaning towards, yes. I just wanted to give you a heads up, and…"

Stefano's one visible eye flicked up to the curator, very clearly conveying the snappish command, "Get to the point."

"I don't want this to be a burning of bridges, Mr. Valentini. Your past works have always been very well received and I can confidently say that this museum's collection has been bettered by them." He gestured towards Stefano. "Your landscapes, for example. If you have any more of those, I'd be more than happy to display them."

"Landscapes?" Stefano repeated softly, though he wanted to scream it. Was this a joke? No, really, was it? It had to be.

"Yes. Or your portraits," the curator continued, completely unaware. "Your recent ones of your wife turned out—."

"Thank you," Stefano cut off, planting his foot down and rising. "This has been a nice chat." The curator looked startled. Stefano walked towards the door.

"Mr. Valentini—."

"Have a good day."

His mind was still roaring and ripping in tumultuous wrath as he headed out of the museum's administration wing. _Landscapes?_ Why waste perfectly fine gallery space for such a boring, vapid, insipid, _stupid_ thing? If the curator wanted landscapes, he ought to just look out the window for fuck's sake!

Stefano slowed his steps, quickly tempering himself down. Taking a deep breath, he reached up. Out of habit, he almost brushed his hair out of his face. But he didn't, and his hand dropped back down to his side.

The man who had once photographed landscapes and other equally dull compositions was gone. One could even say he had been killed in the explosion that had taken out Stefano's eye. And the man standing in his shoes today was better for it—he had been enlightened. He would rather burn every single one of his beautiful pieces than revert back to those pitiful years.

But now he was so very alone, pummeled by the dimwitted critiques of apes. Stefano bitterly missed his muse—his darling Celestina. She was the only one who understood him. _Amore mio, never has any other month seemed so long as this one_.

He pushed his way out of the museum through the revolving glass door. The street outside was bright and lively. Hundreds of feet pounded across the concrete. They belonged to blots of moving color—splotches of paint that had been carelessly thrown onto a canvas.

Stefano let out a heavy, irate breath. He pulled the collar of his white dress shirt lightly away from his throat. The cruel, mocking memory of Celestina's hands wildly pulling his collar open flashed briefly like a double exposure over his senses. There had once been a day when he could suffer through these Neanderthals alone, but those days too were dead and gone.

As he walked, one of the blobs moved closer. It suddenly assumed the form of a man. Stefano gave him a brief side-glance, not slowing his pace. _Whatever you want, I've no interest in giving it to you._

This man was… ugh. His only saving grace was his rather stylish leather jacket, but his coppery brown hair was unkempt and the dress shirt underneath looked wrinkled, as though worn several days without being ironed.

But he was quickly converging on Stefano's path, so he had no choice but to slow down. He was tall, broad set. The leather sleeves strained around the man's arms.

"Stefano Valentini?"

"Who's asking?" Stefano replied casually.

"Detective Ledford, KCPD." The man pulled back the front of his jacket by a bit, revealing the corner of his badge tucked inside only for a second before closing it.

Oh boy. A cop. Just when Stefano thought he could salvage the rest of this day—no. He'd just traded the company of one simpleton for another. "Yes, it's me."

"Well," the detective suddenly mused. His lips twitched into a smile. Stefano couldn't see past the offending scruff. _Uncouth. You could have at least shaved that mess off before talking to me._ "Finding you has really made my day, Mr. Valentini." He leaned an inch closer, his voice growing low. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, you're probably recognized here in the art district. Just because I'm a nice fella, I'm going to give you a chance to preserve your reputation and cuff you when you're out of sight. My patrol car is right around the corner. Come along, but if you want to be loud I can roll with that too."

Stefano followed the detective down the street.

The patrol car was sitting along the curb in a secluded part of the district. When they reached it, the detective turned around to face Stefano. "Hands on the car, please." When Stefano complied, the detective pulled his arms back one at a time. He heard the mechanical clicking of the handcuffs and felt their cold, firm grip latch onto his wrists.

"Mr. Valentini, you're under arrest for the murder of Janine Sawyer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can…"

Janine Sawyer, huh? Oh yes, Stefano remembered. That one had been quite a special one. So the detective had come to arrest him for _that one_ , had he? He wondered what had pointed the detective in his direction. Still, Stefano couldn't help but commend this one for getting closer than any of the other badge-wearing buffoons in this city. Not that it'd help him in the end.

"… Do you understand the rights as they have been read to you?"

"Of course, Detective. What kind of man do you think I am?"

The detective opened the backseat door for him. Before Stefano stepped in, he and the detective locked eyes for a heartbeat. There was something interesting about this one.

"That remains to be seen," the detective replied stonily.


	7. Interrogation

The news reached her shortly after she arrived at the hotel. Her suitcases lay open on the floor and at the foot of the bed, still mostly filled with neatly bundled clothes, cosmetics, and toiletries. When she heard of what had happened in Krimson City in her short absence, the corner of Celestina's mouth tugged down in stark displeasure.

 _Oh, my dear photographer,_ she thought. _What kind of mess did you get yourself into?_

The brash idea of having Clyde cancel her first three shows to fly back home flashed briefly in her mind, but she dispelled it. It would be a logistical nightmare, not to mention having to sort through refunding hundreds of irate people. And Celestina didn't want to think of what it would do to La Contessa's reputation if she canceled. _My poor husband has been arrested, but that wouldn't matter to them. All they care about is what they feel entitled to—that little ticket they bought_.

Even then, she wasn't going to abandon Stefano. He was important to her in so many ways beyond their marriage. And luckily for him, he'd married a woman who always had her ends covered.

Celestina took her phone from the nightstand. With it in her hand, she stepped over to the window. Celestina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she exhaled, her brow crashed down in a look of despair. She summoned a deep burning from her throat and behind her eyes. When she opened them, they were glassy with tears. Her next breath came out shuddering. Celestina turned away from the window, crying freely. She lifted her phone and dialed a saved contact.

She heard a click end the ringing, and a man's voice answered, "Celestina?"

"Doug, I just heard what happened," Celestina whimpered through her sobs. "Is he okay? Oh, my Stefano! I-I shouldn't have left!" She covered her mouth as she pulled in a ragged, shaking breath. "I'm going to t-talk to Clyde; see if I can c-catch a flight back."

"Hey, hey," Doug soothed over the phone. "Celestina, it's going to be okay. You don't need to come back—I'll take care of this."

"I can't ask you to do that. Your wife—."

"She's making a speedy recovery. And she loved those flowers. Celestina, I'm not doing this as your attorney. I'm doing this as your friend. Believe me when I tell you that there's nothing to worry about. I will do everything in my power to make sure your husband walks free."

"Doug, I-I… Thank you so much. Please, protect him."

"Yes ma'am."

Celestina hung up. Immediately, the despair vanished. She cleared her throat. With the side of her hand, she delicately wiped the tears from her face and stepped into the bathroom to fix her makeup.

* * *

One by one each document, each piece of ammunition, was placed in meticulous order inside the folder. Ledford paused between additions, mentally rehearsing the statements and questions associated with them. Everything had to go perfectly. He finally had someone in custody, and he was _sure_ he had fallen on the right track. Sleep deprivation be damned, he was going to get what he wanted out of this questioning here and now!

Ledford walked out of his office, armed with his folder. In the hallway, Detective Hendriks stopped him. "Vankirk told me you made an arrest on the street." She eyed him, her face tainted with concern. "I know these murders have been eating at you, Jackson, but was this a little… premature?"

"I'm not doing it just for the sake of doing it," Ledford replied. "I know I'm onto something here."

"All right. Hey, I'm dying for some progress as much as you are." Hendriks glanced over her shoulder towards the direction of the interrogation rooms. "Just… go get 'em, I guess."

"Vote of confidence real appreciated." He cracked a grin and gently slapped the folder playfully against Hendriks's arm as he passed her.

Interrogation rooms were real works of art, though not in the least nice to look at, let alone be in. They were designed to be as unpleasant as possible and automatically push the interviewee into a state of discomfort. Ledford couldn't help but marvel this small bit of carefully designed psychological manipulation.

The room was small with bare, gray walls. On the wall directly across the door was the observation mirror—no doubt Lieutenant Vankirk would be behind it to observe the interrogation. There was a small, rectangular table positioned with its shorter side pushed against the wall to divide the room into uneven halves. In the larger half, closer to the mirror, were two chairs facing each other. One was up against the wall, an uncomfortable plastic one for the suspect. The other, Ledford's, was lined with thin red cushioning.

The suspect was already there when he stepped into the room. Ledford placed the folder quietly onto the table and took a seat. The detective took a few moments to survey the man across from him.

Stefano Valentini. This guy… looked like a prick. Like the kind of guy who wanted his coffee a certain, outrageous way and got pissy if it wasn't made right. And getting hitched with La Contessa probably exacerbated that inflated head problem.

He stared right back, and Ledford couldn't help but feel he was analyzing him just as closely. Carefully, the detective broke the silence.

"Mr. Valentini—."

"As you likely know," Stefano interrupted, "I have the right to refuse any request from you until my legal counsel arrives."

Ledford paused. Dammit, he was right. Before coming to the interview, Ledford had been told that a lawyer was coming to the precinct. And not just any lawyer…

There came knocking—two brief raps on the door. Ledford stood and opened it a crack. An officer stood outside. "Detective," he said. "The attorney's here."

"Just in time," Ledford muttered. He opened the door wider and jerked his head. "Let him in."

A man with dark, graying hair slicked neatly back was ushered in a few moments later. His black suit had been finely tailored, and a matching black tie secured the starched collar to his neck. He walked past Ledford and extended a hand towards Stefano.

"Mr. Valentini, Douglas Newell, criminal defense attorney. I'm here as your legal counsel and representative in court."

"Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Newell," Stefano replied coolly, returning the handshake without rising. The attorney turned back to Ledford.

"Detective, I'd like to speak with my client in private before we continue this questioning."

"Sure," Ledford agreed. He left the interrogation room with his folder, closing the door gently behind him. He knew Vankirk would have to leave the observation window as well. Lowering his head, Ledford pinched the bridge of his nose.

Douglas Newell of Newell & Orbach, LLP was legendary—when he didn't get his clients off the hook, he lessened their sentences considerably. And that level of skill didn't come cheap. Newell was famously picky when accepting clients. Ledford had hardly seen him in any of his criminal cases. The last time he and Newell had appeared on the same case was when…

Ledford's eyes grew distant as the memory bubbled up. The last time he had seen Newell was when he defended a woman in a very cut-and-dry self-defense case. And that woman had been…

 _Small world,_ Ledford mused. No doubt she was behind Newell's appearance here—she'd sent him to defend her dearest.

Looking down, Ledford began perusing his folder again. The evidence he had here, documents and photographs to show, escalated in gravity further down. He only hoped he wouldn't have to present the ones at the very end of the folder.

It took about another half an hour until Ledford was called back in to continue the interrogation. The suspect was still in his chair, and Newell had taken a seat on the other side of the table from him.

This time, as Ledford passed it, he dropped the folder heavily onto the table. "All right, Mr. Valentini. Where were we?"

"I believe you were at the cusp of getting your first question out, Detective."

Ledford hated that casual, uppity tone.

Newell looked at Stefano. "Remember that, at any point, you can stop answering the detective's questions."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Stefano said, resting the calf of one leg over the knee of the other. "But I'll answer them nonetheless—just to let the detective know how fickle his suspicions of me are."

He hadn't even gotten his first question out, and Ledford already hated the both of them. "So," he began, keeping his voice formal. "Mr. Valentini, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a photographer," Stefano answered, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his lap. "I capture the essence of finesse and beauty with my lens."

 _Okay, you can cut it with the poetic bullshit_. "I see. And what about your latest works? What were they like?" He gave a haphazard shrug and added, "You'll have to forgive me. I'm not really an artsy person."

"I can see that," Stefano replied. Ledford's foot twitched. "My latest? Well, let's see…" He saw Stefano's eye flick to the side as he recollected. "Commissions, mostly. Portraits, fashion shoots. I did a few for my Celestina recently to promote her tour."

 _Vague answers_ , Ledford noted. Though he couldn't tell if the suspect was simply not choosing to delve too deeply into a casual subject, or was hiding something. And Ledford wasn't a rookie at interrogations—he knew if he tried prying, good ol'Newell would interrupt with the claim that the questions were out of scope of the case.

"Sounds… interesting."

In response, Stefano's lips twitched up in a polite, emotionless smile before quickly dropping.

"Now, Mr. Valentini," Ledford said, leaning forward to rest his elbows onto his knees. "Why don't you tell me about your connection with Emily Lewis?"

He saw it there—flashing like lightning in the suspect's eyes. A brief glimpse of vulnerability triggered by surprise. Ledford kept his face stoic as his eyes remained trained on Stefano's face.

"Ah," Stefano said quietly. "Her death shook me to the core. She was a beautiful, talented woman. I'm just glad I had the privilege of knowing her before she was stolen away."

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. Valentini. I didn't ask for a eulogy."

"I was arrested as a suspect for the Janine Sawyer murder, Detective. Why are you bringing Emily up?"

"Her death has relevance in this case as well," Ledford answered, crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders. "That's all you need to know.

"Emily and I were long-time friends. In fact, I can hardly remember a time when I didn't know her. When she started applying to modeling agencies, I took the photos she submitted with her applications. Naturally, she caught eyes. As the both of us became more serious in our work, our paths began diverging a little. But we never lost contact. Then I didn't hear back from her for a while, and later I found out Emily was gone forever. Now all I've left are the photographs."

 _Trying to turn it back into a sob story, are you?_ "So you're telling me that there was a gap between when you last saw her and her death?"

"Well, yes."

 _I swear that's a lie. And there's probably some evidence to that once I start digging._ "Good," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I'm going to ask the question again—this time I want you to answer with respect to Amanda Cabera."

He saw the slightest furrow in Stefano's brow before it was immediately erased. "Amanda..." he repeated slowly. "I only knew her for a short while. She reached out to me because of a referral—I did two, maybe three, shoots with her. Didn't see her again after that."

Ledford gave a nod, as though he were a teacher approving a student's recitation. "Again. With Natalie McMann."

The gloved fingers pulled apart. "Detective—."

"And once you're done with Natalie, once more with Abigail Winters." Ledford rose to his feet, stepping forward and leaning on the table with one hand. "You see where I'm going here don't you, Mr. Valentini?" Without giving the suspect a chance to answer, Ledford continued, "How many photo shoots did you do with Natalie? Abigail? And _Janine?_ "

There was a pause, and in the lull… nothing. No nervous jitters, no fidgeting. It was as if Stefano wasn't backed into a corner, or if he was, he was perfectly comfortable there. Ledford watched him take a deep breath as he reached up and straightened the front of his blazer with both hands.

"Is this really the basis of your suspicions?" Stefano asked softly. "Exactly how much thought did you put into this, Detective? Or were you so desperate to put someone in cuffs you jumped at the nearest beck and call—whatever _seemed_ to make sense to you?"

"If I were you, I'd reassess if using that kind of tone is going to help, Mr. Valentini," Ledford replied hotly. "You have a solid connection with each and every one of these victims—victims, might I add, who died in meticulously similar fashions as if killed by the same individual. And you've had each and every one of these women in your lens at some point in time. _You_ are the common denominator."

Ledford waited for any kind of reaction. The suspect regarded him silently, looking almost… bemused. And whatever was underneath that hair on the side of his face—Ledford felt as though it was watching him too.

"You must be so proud of yourself."

The detective blinked. Was that… a confession? He straightened up from the table. Then, Stefano continued.

"I think, Detective, you've forgotten something—left out a big piece. And now your entire composition…" He lifted his hands, tracing the outer curves of an imaginary sphere. "… Is lacking. Brittle. Ready to be picked apart by the fallacies that have been circling above your head." He let his hands fall back into his lap.

"So tell me, then, what I'm missing."

"Well, do you mind if I answer your question with a few of my own?"

"If it tells me what I want to know, then fire away."

Atop his crossed leg, Stefano rested his interlocked hands together. "How do you think, Detective, a model transitions from a woman in living color to the image on the cover of a magazine? On a billboard? On a department store display? There's a median—me, if you've not come to realize yet. My career brings me into contact with these models. It is my _job_ to ensure they reach their destination—that magazine, billboard, or display. I run in their circles, so why does it surprise you that my name has some association with each of them? If you're accusing me on the basis of professional proximity, then why aren't _you_ under suspicion considering all the murders _you've_ come into contact with?"

Stefano's eye glanced down at Ledford's hand. He didn't realize he had it clenched into a fist. Quickly, Ledford relaxed it. "We are _nothing_ alike," he hissed in a low voice.

"There are glaring differences, yes. But maybe…" Stefano gave a nonchalant shrug. "Some underlying similarities."

"Do you really think you can compare yourself to me and think it'll pass? I'm a homicide detective! You're a _photographer._ And if your lot regularly comes into contact with murder victims now, then that's news to me!" Ledford jabbed a finger down onto his folder. "These women were targeted, Mr. Valentini. Don't give me that 'similar circles' bullshit."

"And you think I'm the one targeting them? I don't know if you realize, Detective, but I get my biggest commissions from these fashion shoots. I have nothing to gain—in fact I suffer, both emotionally _and_ financially."

"I don't think money's that big of a problem for you, is it? Now that you've got your coin purse wife."

"These murders started happening long before I met my Celestina. You need to sort out your timeline." His eye flashed. "I didn't think you would sink so low as to insult my marriage."

"Detective," Newell said in a warning tone. Ledford had almost forgotten he was there. "Your accusations are starting to border on slander. Don't think I'm unwilling to cut this interrogation short if you start harassing my client like this."

Ledford turned away. "Fine," he said, walking a few paces before turning back. "Next question. Mr. Valentini, try to recall to mid-April—say the 14th, towards the evening. Where were you and what were you doing? Try not to be vague, now."

"Try not to be vague?" Newell repeated. "That was two months ago!"

"It's quite all right," Stefano assured. "April 14th? That was around the time I proposed to the love of my life, so the memory is still well preserved. Towards the evening? I was with my Celestina, of course. Doing, well, what lovers would do on a private evening." His stare almost seemed mocking as it bore into Ledford. "Well, Detective? Still too vague for you? Shall I delve into further detail?"

"It's a weak alibi," Ledford said. "Your wife's corroboration won't be accepted. She's a vested third party."

"Well that's a shame," Stefano said with a dismissive shrug. "What would you have me do then? Make love to my wife in front of an audience next time? I'm not too sure she, nor I, would be very fond of the idea. I've told you only what I can—anything else would be a lie."

Ledford glanced to the side, his jaw clenched. Enough with this bullshit! It had been nearly two hours since the start of the interrogation, and he hadn't made any headway into breaching into this suspect's guilt. All the while, Stefano had responded to each and every one of his questions with that goddamn, better-than-thou attitude. Ledford could practically feel Lieutenant Vankirk's dwindling faith in him from behind the opaque glass.

Ledford was done playing around. "Last set of questions, Mr. Valentini. I'm going to show you a series of photographs, and I want you to respond with a simple yes or no when I ask it of you." He opened the folder, skipping past the documents until he reached the bundle at the end. Taking the first picture, Ledford set it down on the table. Stefano turned his head and lowered his eye to examine it.

The first photograph was of a woman from the torso up. She was holding a light orange chrysanthemum gently against her cheek, while more blossoms had been arranged in her golden hair to look like a bouquet.

"Is this is one of yours—yes or no, Mr. Valentini?"

"Yes."

"You often use flowers in your photo shoots, especially when the model is female—yes or no?"

"Yes."

Ledford took another photograph out and set it down on top of the first. This one was of Stefano and Celestina. A reporter had taken it after one of the singer's performances. She was looking towards the camera, having broken into a wide, dazzling smile. A bouquet of bright red roses was in her hands, and she had her body angled towards her husband as he wrapped his arm snugly around the curve of her waist.

Ledford planted a finger down onto the photograph, pointing at the roses. His finger rested just above the gold ribbon that held the flowers together. "These flowers were given to your wife by you—yes or no?"

"Yes."

Another piece of paper was slapped down over the picture of the elated-looking couple. This one was a cropped excerpt taken from the transcript of a witness interview. Certain lines were highlighted. "You were at the Blue Dahlia bar with a woman named Janine Sawyer on April 8th—yes or no?"

"We were discussing—."

 _"Yes or no, Mr. Valentini."_

A pause. "… Yes."

As soon as the answer came out of Stefano, the last photograph was shown. This one was of Janine Sawyer when Ledford had found her. The detective himself had taken the picture.

"For the love of God!" Newell cried. "Detective Ledford, you can't—."

"If you're uncomfortable, Mr. Newell, you are more than welcomed to look away," Ledford shot back. His unbroken gaze was fixated on Stefano. "Now, Mr. Valentini, here are my last few questions. Free response this time." He pointed at the wilted flowers sprouting from the blood-caked neck. "What are these?"

The next few seconds were filled with silence as the suspect refused to answer. Ledford didn't stop there. His finger moved to the ribbon around the body's neck. "What is that?" His hand came down in a forceful slam over the picture. "And would you care to guess the name of the deceased in this photograph? Just think back to the Blue Dahlia bar, where she was six days before this happened to her, and I'm sure you'll get it."

"That's _enough_." Douglas Newell stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Ledford's eyes finally snapped to him. "Detective Ledford, you have given not one, _not one_ , piece of affirmative evidence to connect my client with these murders."

Ledford couldn't believe his ears. "Where the hell have you been during this entire interrogation?"

"I don't know if you've noticed," Newell countered, "but everything you have presented here is speculative. Your job is to prove guilt beyond reasonable doubt, not shoot off a handful of theories! My client has informed me that he met with Ms. Sawyer to discuss the shoot for her upcoming album's cover. Do you _really_ think he'd let himself be seen in public with her if he was planning on killing her? And this." He gestured down at the picture of the body without looking at it. "Take a look around, Detective Ledford! My client is not the only one to include flowers in his compositions. And it is simply outrageous to attribute coincidental ribbon colors to him."

Well fuck. Ledford's points, as speculative as they may be, were still solid. But Newell sure could make pretty arguments. But as he listened to the attorney, something dawned on Ledford.

 _Upcoming album cover_. "Janine Sawyer… She wasn't a model like the others. She was the black sheep—a singer," Ledford recalled. He looked back at Stefano, staring him straight in the eye. "Just like your wife. Isn't that right, Mr. Valentini?"

He saw that one eye widen for a split second. Then, his brow came crashing down angrily. "Ridiculous!" Stefano spat.

 _Oh?_ Ledford turned back to Stefano, crossing his arms. "Why the sudden change in tone, Mr. Valentini?"

"You're grasping at straws, Detective. You accuse me—fine. But now you try to bring my Celestina into this? The desperation is sickening." His eye flashed. "We're done here. I'm not answering any more of your questions."

Ledford uncrossed his arms. He took the pictures and placed them back into the folder before closing it. "If you insist. We're done… for now." Picking up the folder, Ledfored turned to face the attorney. "Mr. Newell, I'm afraid your client isn't quite off the hook. But don't worry, the precinct will take good care of him." _And I've got a new lead._

For once, Ledford felt he was on top of things. Finally. Hopefully this was a good omen for the rest of the case.


	8. Network Effect

A notification in a black rectangle slid in from the bottom right corner of the screen. Ledford's eyes flicked down. It was a reply from Prosecutor Chen. Immediately, he clicked to his emails and opened the new message.

 _Detective Ledford,_

 _Thanks for the heads up. I'm happy for your progress, but at the same time I must put in a word of warning. Every move we make from now on must be made with extreme caution. Your suspect holds public favor through his spouse, and the lack of definitive evidence we have against him is a little worrying. Still, I'm coming down to the precinct to be debriefed by you and your team, and then we can determine where we can go with legal proceedings. See below for our meeting schedule._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Prosecutor Chen._

Slowly, Ledford let a breath out from between his narrowly parted lips. He didn't blame the prosecutor for having her reservations. But she had agreed to come down and hear the case as it was so far. They were one step closer to nailing this bastard down.

Ledford started on a reply. _Prosecutor,_ he wrote. The detective was in the midst of keying in his first sentence when movement in the doorway caught his eye. A small, bright pastel green blur scurried out of sight and disappeared behind his desk. Ledford heard faint scuffling come softly around the desk, followed by a little girl's poorly suppressed giggle. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a tiny face peek at him from the left corner of the desk. Fighting back a grin, Ledford pretended not to see her as he continued writing out his email.

The face disappeared, and he heard another giggle. Then, the little girl peeked again, this time growing braver and poking her whole head out. The grin was getting harder and harder to hide. Ledford pressed his lips together.

He finished his next sentence and finally swiveled his chair around, ducking his face down to the girl. She gave a startled yip. "I see you, ya little tater tot!"

Caught, Lily emerged from behind the desk in a fit of giggles. The two-year-old wore a bright green dress and striped leggings. Ledford hadn't seen her in months, but man was she growing! The detective bent down in his seat. "Look at you, Lily! You've gotten so big! I swear, the last time you were in this office you were about this high." He stooped down low and held his hand out a few inches above the ground.

"No I wasn't!" Lily replied.

"Yes you were, tater tot. I'm a detective, and detectives are always right, young lady."

"Nuh uh!" Lily countered. "Daddy's a detective, and Mommy says he's not always right!"

Ledford snorted loudly. "Well, I can't argue with that."

Lily turned her attention towards the desk drawers next to her. The bottom one was locked, and she gave it a fruitless tug before moving on to the one above it. She managed to pull it open, but was too short to look into it. "Where's Bunny?" she asked.

"She's in France," Ledford answered, gently closing the drawer.

"France?"

"Yup."

"Where's France?"

"It's…" Ledford paused. He sat up. "Here." Ledford picked Lily up and planted her on his lap. Turning back towards the laptop, he minimized the email and pulled up a world map. "Do you know where we are right now, Lily?"

"Here." She pointed at the blue shape that represented the U.S.

"That's right. We are actually right…" Ledford moved his finger to the west coast. "Here. And Bunny is all the way over…" His finger moved towards the right. "In this little orange blot right here."

"Oh," Lily peeped from his lap. She rested her chin on the edge of the desk. "That's far. Why is she there?"

"School."

Lily looked over her shoulder at Ledford and wrinkled her nose. "I don't like school."

"School makes you smart."

"I'm already smart."

Ledford suddenly belted out a loud burst of laughter, unable to help himself. "You're a sassy little tater tot, aren't you?" He ruffled Lily's hair. The little girl bunched her shoulders up, letting out a sweet little giggle. She turned around in his lap and looked up at him. Then, Lily extended a hand towards his left ear.

"Only girls wear earrings," she stated.

Ledford reached up and gently pinched his black stud earring. "Says who?"

"Says me."

"How 'bout you make an exception for me?"

"Okay."

Someone appeared in Ledford's doorway. "I should have known she'd run in here." Ledford looked up. A blonde woman stood just outside his office, wearing a simple blue V-neck blouse and gray slacks. When their eyes met, Ledford gave a warm smile and touched his two extended fingers against his forehead in an informal salute. "Detective," he addressed. Even though she had left the force after the birth of her daughter, Ledford couldn't see her any other way.

One of Myra's hands dropped from her hips and came forward. "Come here, Lily." The little girl scooted off of Ledford's lap and hurried to her mother. "I hope she wasn't bothering you, Jackson. I heard you were given a tough series of cases. Working hard?"

"Yup, just like you taught me," Ledford replied lightly. He leaned his head against his hand. "Nah, I needed a visit from the little tater tot to brighten my day. This past week has been, well—rough doesn't even begin to cover it. At least things are looking up."

"Oh?" Myra gently draped a hand over Lily's hair as the little girl hugged her waist. "Got a good lead?"

"Yeah. About time."

"Well, Jackson, it's like I told you—a lead's always going to be there. You just need to look hard enough." The woman brought her hand away from Lily's hair and took her hand. "Lily and I are stopping by to pick Sebastian up for lunch. You want to take a break and come with us?"

Ledford rested his hand over the track pad. Man, that would be even more than just third wheeling. "Sorry, I can't up and leave at a time like this. Have a good time." His eyes lowered to the little girl who was still watching him. "See ya around, tater tot."

"Buh-bye, Jackie."

After the two of them left, Ledford closed out the world map. He brought his email back up. Ugh, back to serious stuff. His eyes skimmed over his written words before he brought his fingers back to the keyboard.

 _I've got you now, Valentini. And there's not a thing you can do to get away from what's coming to you._

* * *

Salt Lake Tribune

 **La Contessa Breaks Down in Tears During Performance**

July 6, 2007

With an act that shocked audience members, opera singer and pianist Celestina Amonte broke down on stage during her Salt Lake City show. The singer was closing one of her last songs of the night when spectators heard La Contessa's voice crack. Immediately after, hundreds witnessed the performer begin sobbing. Amonte quickly rushed from the stage, leaving her puzzled audience attempting to guess what had happened. About 15 minutes later, Amonte returned to the stage to finish the rest of the show.

Many have assumed the act to simply be a publicity stunt. Our journalists were able to go back stage and meet Amonte for an interview. She told us that the reason for her breakdown was because of the arrest of her husband by the Krimson City Police Department. "I didn't mean to fall apart in front of everyone like that," Amonte said. "I'm just so heartbroken, so worried for him. The things they're accusing him of doing are awful, and there's no way Stefano could have done them. He's the most wonderful man I've ever met. It's horrific that the KCPD would turn him into a scapegoat like this."

Amonte would not give us the details of what the authorities were accusing Stefano Valentini of, only that it involved a string of missing people in Krimson City. She did, however, tell us that these cases have long been unsolved and that the KCPD were perhaps pointing the finger at her husband simply so it could close the cases out and mitigate the damage to its reputation.

Readers will no doubt be outraged by this blatant act of injustice—carried out by the individuals who have sworn to serve the people. We can only hope the best for Amonte, and for KCPD to pull their heads out of their asses and start arresting the real criminals.

* * *

The phone calls started pouring in—voices from all over the nation relaying their disgust over the line. It was too much, and on the second day, Lieutenant Vankirk marched down to Detective Ledford's office.

"Ledford, are you seeing what they published in the Salt Lake Tribune?" the lieutenant demanded. Tired, ringed eyes flicked up to the outraged man.

"Yes, Lieutenant, I saw."

"The secretaries have had to deal with an upward of forty calls in the past two days," Vankirk snapped. "White knights from all over the nation—I don't even know how they got the station's number!"

"Internet search?" Ledford mumbled, too tired to show proper respect. The secretaries had it easy—somehow these white knights and obsessive fans, spurred by their darling Contessa's tears, had doxxed him and found his personal number. Ledford's phone was currently turned off after having been nonstop ringing since Celestina's little act. He'd have to go and get the number changed soon.

"And that's not the end of the shitstorm," Vankirk continued. "Newell called this morning—threatened to raise hell and have his firm sue for unlawful arrest. We've got some folks from the legal department trying to pacify him, but—." Vankirk cut his words off with an exasperated huff. "Ledford, just what exactly did you get us into?"

The detective rose to his feet. "Unlawful arrest? That lawyer's just trying to scare us. I had probable cause, Lieutenant! All the signs were pointing towards him—you were there for the interrogation. There's a connection!"

"I'll admit, you had me convinced at first," Vankirk replied. "But now that I think about it, and with everything that's going on, maybe… Jackson, maybe there was only a connection because you wanted it to be there."

Ledford's eyes widened. His fingers pressed against the tabletop, pale. "Lieutenant… I didn't fabricate anything."

"By God, Jackson, that's not what I meant. I'm saying maybe you were only seeing what you wanted to see."

Seeing…? No. _No_. There _was_ a connection, dammit! Ledford gave a firm shake of his head. "I can take the bashing," he said. "They can paint me in whatever light they want."

Vankirk regarded him. "Jackson—."

"I'm _serious_ , Lieutenant. If the KCPD needs to direct the blame to me, then do it. These people don't even know a fraction of the story, and they think they've got a better grasp of justice. They can be as loud and abusive as they can, but I'm not backing down. Let them and Amonte cry all they want."

* * *

She sighed a deep, heart-rending sigh over the monitored call. Looking out the hotel window towards the Ahmanson Theater where her last show would take place, Celestina curled a lock of hair around her finger. With her other hand, she held the phone against her ear.

"Oh my darling," she said, filtering sorrow into her voice. "I'll be home soon. LA is my last stop. I'll be back in town by Tuesday. Will they not let you out by then?"

"It doesn't seem like it," the voice on the other end replied. "The detective is adamant on holding me where he can keep an eye on me. I'm afraid you'll have to return to an empty home."

"That's awful." Celestina paused. "I miss you so much."

"As do I, amore mio. Stay safe for me. I love you."

"I love you too."

Celestina leaned the phone away from her ear and hung up. Now, if the officer who'd listened in on that wasn't moved, he was either heartless or stupid. Sitting back in the plush chair, Celestina took a deep breath. So the KCPD wasn't going to bend under bad publicity—fine. There were other ways to make them doubt themselves, and Celestina was going to play each of their keys if she had to.

Turning her head, she glanced down at the magazine on the tea table next to her. On its cover was the picture of a woman with wind-blown hair, posing with her hip tilted in a sultry fashion. Celestina picked up the magazine and thumbed through the pages.

There was one article—ah, there it was. An article about the _lovely_ Marie Chaparé, rising star of stage and show. And how stunning did she look in those photographs accompanying the article—all smiles with that adorable blonde pixie cut. Celestina had been, well, a little more than displeased when she had first laid eyes on the article. Two months ago, Marie had been a nobody. And already these magazine publishers were planting her pictures in their pages? If things kept going on like this, then…

Well, now was as good a time as any to clear the competition. Best to tear out the weed while it was still young. And what good timing for her dear photographer, too.

Oh, but dress rehearsal was in an hour. It could wait. This was important.

Celestina lifted her phone and dialed a number. She flicked her hair back with a jerk of her head and brought the phone to her ear. A woman picked up. "Hello?"

"Marie!" Her voice was so sweet, so delighted. "Oh, cara mia! Am I keeping you from something?"

"Celestina! Oh, no you're not. I just…" Marie sounded confused. But of course—Celestina was still on tour, after all. "I heard about Stefano and Salt Lake. I'm so sorry—are you doing all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I just… had a silly bit of emotion come over me then. How embarrassing. It's all in the past now." Celestina casually inspected her nails and continued, "And you are so sweet to offer me your condolences. My dear Stefano… he's innocent, of course. And if the KCPD has anyone with any shred of competence, they'll eventually find that out. I just hope it's sooner rather than later." Suddenly, Celestina lowered her hand and sat up. "But Marie—and I'm terribly sorry to be doing this—but I really need to ask you for a favor. I can't trust anyone else with this."

There was a short lull, and then Marie replied, "Sure. What can I do for you?"

"Well…" Celestina let out an airy sigh. "I've been thinking, and I've suddenly come to remember something. It's been keeping me up at night. I need you to go to my place. Not Stefano's, but my own—before I decided to move in with my dear photographer. You know the one, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, good. You see, I've got… well, let's just call it a dirty little secret. The nightstand in my room has a couple of letters from an old ex of mine. There's nothing between us anymore, of course—hasn't been anything for a long time. I kept them for sentimental reasons, but I'm a married woman and they're just scraps of paper now." Celestina crossed an arm over her stomach. "But the thing is, that kind of explanation won't stop Stefano from the conclusions he'll jump to should he find them."

"But he's—."

"Marie, you know as well as I do that he's not responsible for those disappearances." A corner of Celestina's lips curled up as she said, "I wouldn't marry a killer, would I?"

"No." It tickled Celestina how sure Marie sounded. "Of course you wouldn't. So you think he'll be out before you get back?"

"I certainly hope so. And I really can't risk him finding those letters—he has an extra key. Oh, and Marie?"

"Yes."

"One more thing… I'd really appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. Please don't let anyone know about this or where you're going. You know how crafty journalists can get. They've got noses like bloodhounds."

"You can say that again. So you want me to go get them out of that nightstand?"

"Yes, please. Just hold onto them until I get back into town to get rid of them myself. There's a spare key in the hanging flowerpot next to the door. You can get in that way."

"I didn't think you were the kind of person to do that."

Celestina chuckled lightly. "Oh, I'm not too afraid of burglars." It would be one break-in they'd certainly wished they hadn't done, though Celestina kept that remark to herself. "Cara mia, I can't tell you how grateful I am. You're saving me from a world of hurt."

"No problem, Celestina. Finish off your tour with a bang. I'll see you when you get back."

"Likewise, I can't wait to see you." Celestina hung up. _What you become after he's done with you._

* * *

An entire afternoon had been spent pursuing his new lead. Ledford had pulled up and dug through Amonte's personal file. All he found was a clean record—no past offenses, not even petty ones. Of course, the file was incomplete. A majority of it centered on Amonte's life after she had entered into the limelight. And she wasn't about to commit any crimes while focused in the spotlight.

Hmm… Ledford reached up and ran his fingers down his freshly shaven jaw as his eyes skimmed the text on the computer monitor. Celestina Amonte—born in Milan, Italy to insanely affluent parents. Well, that explained how an opera singer was living the lifestyle of an A-list celebrity. After finishing music school, she had moved to the U.S. And that was all the information available on her early life. The rest was when she had become La Contessa, and that, well, was as dull as dishwater to be frank.

Ledford ducked his head down to pinch the bridge of his nose. He let out a heavy breath through his nose. He was _sure_ there was more to Amonte than what was here on this screen. And to Valentini.

Stefano had given Ledford information he didn't meant to give—his reaction in the interrogation room made that crystal clear. _I just gotta look hard enough, and I'll find that lead_.

Ledford glanced away from the screen to ponder. _I've never personally met Amonte—just seen what she's shown the public eye. All smiles and glamor. They don't call her Krimson City's sweetheart for nothing. She's an entirely different personality from the asshat she married, but they say opposites attract._ Ledford pushed his hand through his hair and logged out of the department computer. He stood and left the lab.

As he walked down the hall, his phone buzzed. It was a text from France. Ledford smiled. Now that there was finally light at the end of the tunnel, it was nice to hear from her again.

He was in the midst of unlocking his phone when he heard the urgent cry. "Ledford!" The detective's eyes snapped up. Hendriks was hurrying down the hall towards him. Ledford didn't like that look on her face. He lowered his phone.

"What happened?"

Detective Hendriks stopped, her eyes darkened with dread. "A 911 call came in," she said. "Another woman just went missing."

Ledford felt as though a weight had been dropped on his chest. No, this couldn't be happening. This wasn't _supposed_ to be happening. Valentini was still in custody.


	9. Another Masterpiece

With a quick twist, the engine was cut dead. She leaned towards the steering wheel to give one last peek out the windshield before opening the car door. _Here we go_ , she told herself. The car lock clicked.

What a strange request Celestina had given her. Marie was steadfast in keeping secrets, but this was something a little weird to be entrusting to a friend of only a few months. Still, Celestina had only ever been kind to her, and Marie was determined not to let her down.

She looked up at it as she walked up to the front door. The place was beautiful—luxurious and expensive, like all things Celestina owned. Two flowerpots hung by the door. Bright magenta blossoms on drooping vines spilled out from over the clay rims. Marie came to one, reaching up and feeling blindly for a key. Her hand found only dirt. When she reached into the other, her hand closed in on the key.

 _Let's see,_ she recalled to herself as she unlocked the front door. _Letters are in the nightstand_. _Nightstand is in the bedroom… Okay, so where's the bedroom?_

Marie walked in. The place was dark, as all blinds and curtains had been drawn in the vacant home. There was a light switch by the coat rack that illuminated the living room. Beige sofas were arranged the large space, covered in rich velvety material and gold studs. At the center was a large coffee table with a glass centerpiece. A tall cabinet hugged the wall opposite to the fireplace. Past its glass doors, Marie saw a wide arrangement of drinking glasses. Celestina, no doubt, entertained her guests here. And that fireplace, though swept clean at the moment, probably housed large, crackling fires during those occasions. _I'm looking for the_ bedroom, Marie reminded herself.

Past the next door was the dining room. A long, rectangular dining room sat towards the middle of the space with chairs arranged around it—too many for Marie to count at a glance. A black metal chandelier hung over the table. There was a small bar on the other side, and Marie joked to herself that perhaps she ought to help herself to a drink for her trouble.

To be honest, she didn't want to stay here longer than she needed to. Marie couldn't quite put a finger on it, but something about the place made her skin tingle. Maybe it was just the emptiness—all this space, and not a soul in it but her.

Marie walked past a large set of double doors and went into the kitchen space. The pale quartz counters were spotless. _I'd bet money that Celestina never prepared a single meal herself in here_. As she passed by, Marie ran a finger across the countertop. Not a speck of dust. Strange. She would have thought that this place had seen little activity since Celestina started living with Stefano. Maybe she still had cleaners come in to keep the place spick and span even though no one lived in it. Marie knew a lot of people who, once at a certain income level, would carelessly toss money at these sorts of things.

If that was the case, why didn't Celestina get one of them to remove the letters? Though, thinking about it, Marie wasn't sure she'd trust a sensitive, personal task like this to a minimum wage worker either.

A door in the kitchen led to a short hallway. The master bedroom was at the end of it. Marie stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open. The deep, wine-red carpeting muffled her steps. She turned the lights on. Even with the large, four-poster canopy bed, the room was spacey. Marie crossed the room to the deep mahogany nightstand by the bed. It had a single drawer. She reached down and pulled it open.

It was completely empty except for a single thing—a card. Marie picked up the small piece of cardstock and opened it. Inside were words printed in black.

 **Welcome to the Gallery**

She heard a creaking groan behind her. Marie straightened up and whirled around. She saw the door close with a sharp slam, and the telltale click of a lock. Heart racing, she rushed to the door and desperately twisted the handle. The door was stuck in place against her pulling. Marie drew back and slammed her shoulder against the door. Once, twice. She backed away, holding her arm. After only a few steps, she stopped in her tracks.

Suddenly there was music—an orchestra playing softly from somewhere behind her. Marie turned, realizing that it was coming from the connected bathroom. Slowly, she walked towards it. The door was cracked open. She stopped in front of it and peeked in.

Her breath came out in an audible croak of horror. Unable to stop herself, Marie reached out and opened the door a little wider to get a better look.

There were framed pictures hung up on the bathroom walls. They even covered the mirrors. In them were women—very clearly dead. Blank, listless faces were captured in their images. Lifeless, staring eyes. Lips parted, devoid of breath, and some with runnels of blood escaping from the corners of mouths.

A musty smell came through the door. It was old, but held the traces of the rotting fruit stench it once had. Only it wasn't fruit, but rather what was sitting on the bathroom counter. Time had brought it to the point where all soft tissue had liquefied, melted into a dried pool on the marble countertop. What remained was a skeletal hand with bits of gray-brown flesh still clinging to it. Its fingers were draped over the stem of a wilted rose—its wrinkled, yellow petals once white.

There was one picture. The pair of eyes in it was still alive. Marie found her gaze drawn to it, and her stomach turned. It depicted a woman lying on the ground, with the camera having taken the picture from the ground next to her. A knife jutted from her neck, and blood pooled around her head. She was staring straight into the camera—at Marie. Her eyes held confusion, pain, and fear.

It was Janine Sawyer. She had disappeared a few months ago. The last update the police had given was that they were still searching for her.

She had been right here. They had all been here—those names on the news and the Have You Seen Me posters. The bodies the police had found. They had all once been right here. Right where she was now.

Marie stumbled back away from the door. Away from the pictures of death and the rotted hand and the eerie music. Gasping heavily, she took her phone and tried to make an emergency call. It wouldn't go through. There was no reception. _No reception?_

That was impossible. Unless something was blocking her signal. Her breathing began to shorten and quicken as panic set in. Her eyes snapped to the curtains. Rushing over, Marie ripped them back. Then she stepped back. A shuddering sob escaped her lips.

The window was barred. A cage of metal covered the glass from the inside, sealing her in like an animal. Marie flew forward, grabbing the bars and shaking them so hard her entire body wrenched.

 _"Help me! Somebody! Help me! Please!"_ Unable to control herself, she began to scream over and over again. She shook the unrelenting bars, sobbing and shrieking. The orchestra played a duet with her voice.

* * *

After two days without hearing from her, Marie Chaparé's boyfriend Victor Langston made a 911 call to the KCPD. It was a tune the police had long since grown familiar with hearing, and it made them fear the worst. The response was immediate. Detective Corinne Hendriks and three search parties immediately departed to sweep the city. When questioned about her last known whereabouts, Victor told the police that Marie had headed out to do something. She wouldn't tell him what it was.

While the search fanned out across the city, Ledford stayed behind. Determined that the suspect knew something, the detective called him down to the interrogation room. Word was going to take a short while to reach Newell, and Ledford was going to make the most of the attorney's absence.

In the interrogation room, Stefano inquired about Newell, and Ledford answered that it was going to be a while. "You know how traffic in Krimson City can get."

"Then—."

"Mr. Valentini, I have requested your presence here out of the highest urgency. Anything you do or say to delay this questioning will be considered an obstruction of justice." There was still the Fifth Amendment, but Ledford was hoping he could coax Stefano in skirting around that. If he had learned anything this past week, it was that Stefano seemed to make it a game to rustle the detective's feathers as much as possible. _Well rustle away, you fuck_.

He saw Stefano's eyebrows rise. "Someone else go missing, Detective?"

Ledford crossed his arms. "And you don't seem the least bit surprised."

"And why would I be when you've wasted all this time on me while your real killer is still running loose, preying on these poor women who relied on you for protection?" Stefano leaned back in the creaky plastic chair and rested one leg over the other. "As you know, I've been here for the past… nearly two weeks now. I've not a single blip of contact with anyone except my Celestina—who is utterly heartbroken at your unjust persecution of me, you should know." As he regarded Ledford, he tilted his head. The hair almost slid from his face. "Oh, but let me guess. You're going to try to accuse her next, aren't you? Say she's my accomplice? She's currently in an airplane, several thousand feet from the ground and whoever it was that went missing. And before that, she was in Los Angeles with an alibi about a few hundred witnesses strong."

Everything he said was watertight. It was true—anyway one looked at it, it seemed Stefano had nothing to do with Chaparé's disappearance. But Ledford wasn't convinced. And he had gotten too far, too _damn_ far, to lose it all like this. "I know," the detective uttered in a low voice, "that you have some part in this."

"I don't have the ability to pass through walls or blink from one spot to the next. Although…" Stefano leaned his head back, lifting a hand to delicately tap his chin. "That would be quite handy."

"You and her might have everyone fooled, but I'm not falling for this bullshit."

"Let's see how far that faith takes you."

Ledford's head turned to the door at the sound of knocking. He opened the door and was informed at Newell had arrived.

"Good. Just in time. I'm done with this ass," Ledford mumbled to the officer. As he stepped out of the room, he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Make sure he stays where I can see him."

But even with Ledford's best efforts to hold onto his lead, it slipped from his grip. Three days of searching came up with nothing. KCPD fell under even more pressure and fire. Finally, with the police chief breathing down his neck, Lieutenant Vankirk had the suspect released from police custody. There wasn't enough evidence, and the claim of probable cause had wilted.

Ledford was there when Stefano walked. His hands, shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, could have crushed rocks to dust in their grip. Just before stepping out, Stefano turned his head towards the detective. His one eye met Ledford's glowering ones. Then, Newell put a hand on Stefano's shoulder and the two walked out.

Celestina, having finally returned to Krimson City, was waiting outside. Newspapers captured the moment when she rushed to Stefano and burst into tears of joy in his arms. In the eyes of those watching, this was a victory. Witnesses to the scene saw how Celestina lifted her face and, before kissing him, whispered something into her husband's ear.

This was just a setback, Ledford told himself. Marie was still missing, and he wasn't done yet. There was still a lead, and he was going to pursue it even if he was the only one. That same day, Ledford came before the state magistrate to request a search warrant of the Oakland Condominiums penthouse. Upon hearing the detective's request, a knowing look came over the magistrate's face.

"First you accuse Stefano Valentini, and now you demand to search his wife's property," the magistrate said. "Do you have probable cause, Detective? Or is this still based on hearsay?"

"The former," Ledford replied firmly. "With all due respect, Your Honor, time is of the essence here. If we don't find Chaparé's whereabouts soon, then…" He let himself trail off. In grim acknowledgment, the magistrate lowered his eyes. "She and Amonte had a very clearly established friendship, Your Honor. Even if Chaparé isn't there, there's bound to be some clue as to where she is. As Langston informed us, she left her home willingly before she disappeared—which means someone she knew called her out."

It was more the urgency that convinced the magistrate, but all that mattered was the finalized warrant that Ledford obtained. Celestina, of course, voiced her displeasure at this intrusion of her home. However, she agreed to comply with the search, imploring the KCPD to hurry and find her dear Marie before it was too late.

As soon as he had the warrant, Ledford sped downtown to Oakland—a tall, silver building that stretched up as one of the tallest structures in Krimson City. Ledford parked at the curb at the front. To the baffled valet driver who came up, he pulled the front of his jacket back, quickly saying, "Krimson City police. If you get it towed, I'll have you brought in," before rushing through the revolving glass door.

The elevator ride to the 15th floor took too long. A female voice announced his arrival to the top. Ledford rushed forward, turning his body sideways through the elevator doors as they were still sliding open.

There was no hallway on the 15th floor—only a single door that led to the penthouse. Ledford rushed past the areca palm that grew from a woven pot by the door. With the keycard the guard at the front had given him, Ledford scanned himself in. As soon as the light above the handle turned green, he grabbed it and turned it.

With a firm push, he stepped through the door.

* * *

When he stepped in, he noticed the lights were on. His hand lingered on the doorknob, pulling it slowly shut behind him. As soon as the latch clicked, he moved forward. He walked past the living room.

He heard it growing louder and louder with every step—the crisp, lavish notes of the orchestra. It welcomed him, invited him. _Come_ , it implored. _There is art to be made._

At the front of the police department, when he had finally become reunited with his beautiful muse, she had whispered something wonderful in his ear. The gentle caress of her breath had tickled his skin.

"I have a dirty little secret waiting for you."

A deep shiver had run through him at her words—the kind meant to be reserved for closed bedroom doors.

As he passed through, he made a stop at the kitchen first. He set the carafe in place into the coffee maker and pushed one of its buttons. The machine gave a cheery chime. From within it, a deep whirring sounded as water boiled. He turned away and continued into the small hallway.

He stopped just outside, listening to the music that reverberated from the room just beyond. There was no other sound, but he knew she was in there. The door unlocked with a hollow click. The hinges creaked.

She was huddled against the wall by the barred window. Strange—he always found them there. How quaint. It reminded him of moths running themselves over and over against light bulbs—pointless, but entertaining nonetheless.

She lifted her head when she heard him. Her eyes widened with fear at the sight of him, and he loved it. The door closed behind him, locking the both of them in.

"Ah," Stefano mused softly. "I thought you would be the one she'd choose next."

She lifted herself off the ground, holding onto the wall support. The poor thing was trembling like a leaf, and her voice shook just as much. "N-not you."

"My dear, how rude. Who taught you manners like that?" He took a step towards her. Immediately, she flattened herself against the wall. He could practically hear her rapid-fire heart.

"Stay away," she cried. Stefano found it amusing how firm she was trying to sound. "S-stay away from me!" She lifted a quivering arm and pointed an accusing finger at him. "It-it was you! All of them—you! J-Janine… what did you do to her?"

"You're about to find out." He took another step, watching it turn her panic up by another notch. She slid against the wall, trying to look for an opening around him. But Stefano had her cornered. But he wasn't about to approach her, not yet. Oh, he wanted this to last.

At his next step, she suddenly had a stun gun held out in front of her. Stefano paused. The end of the black device crackled threateningly. "Get back!" she snapped. "I'll hurt you, you fucker! Don't you _dare_ get any closer!"

The next few seconds were spent in tense silence. And then he laughed.

"This one bites," he mused. "You are _fun_."

He saw her will break. The hand holding the stun gun began to shake harder. "You're insane," she whimpered. "Absolutely fucking insane." She started crying. Aw. Poor baby. "Why? Why would you do this? Why would you kill them?"

"My dear," Stefano said in a soothing voice. "What a crass word. Animals kill. Barbarians kill. _I_ am an artist. I don't kill."

"Yes! Yes you do!" She threw a finger towards the bathroom. "Th-those women in there are dead! You killed them all!"

Another step. "My dear. You're starting to make me mad."

"Stop!" Her voice had elevated to a shriek. "Don't get _any closer! Please!"_

"Hmm. And what happens if I do?" He took another step. She slid against the wall, but it hardly distanced them. Mockingly, Stefano lifted his hands in a harmless manner. "Look," he said. "See. I'm unarmed. Why are you so scared of me?"

Fear had taken her voice. All she could do was shake her head. With an irate sigh, Stefano turned around and began walking away. He glanced briefly over his shoulder to make sure she wouldn't rush up at him with the stun gun. That would be the smart thing to do. But she was still glued against the wall. Terror was glorious—how elegantly did it force the mind away from common sense.

"Why do you always make this so difficult?" he chided gently as he walked into the bathroom. Oh, that smell. He hadn't gotten a chance to get rid of the props for his last shoot, what with the KCPD being a pain in the ass for the past two weeks. If Celestina knew, she would have given him an earful for sure.

But that would have to wait. Stefano came up to the bathtub and turned the tap on. The stopper was already in, keeping the water trapped. Behind him, above the sound of the orchestra, he could the door jostle in its frame as she tried to force it open.

He sat leisurely on the edge of the tub. Eye lowered, he watched the water level against the porcelain climb slowly. Stefano wished she wouldn't cry so loudly—he was trying to listen to the music.

She was still trying the door. Why? It was very clearly locked. Stefano was once again reminded of the moth beating itself against the light bulb. Tap… tap… tap… Silly creature.

When the water was just a few inches below the rim, Stefano reached over and turned the tap off. He stood and walked over to the bathroom counter. Stopping in front of the rotted hand, he reached down and pulled a drawer open. Waiting inside was a knife, its six inches of cold steel glinting in the frosted glass-filtered light. For creatures so desperate to protect themselves, none of them had ever found this. Though, Stefano suspected, the silly things had always been too terrified of the art to step into the bathroom to find it.

Stefano turned and walked slowly towards the door. His mind was alight with the sparks of creativity. The knife would have to be used minimally—he wanted this one as preserved as possible. Recognizable. He wanted the KCPD to see her face. He wanted that detective to know who she was.

She was keeping a good eye on the bathroom door so that when he walked back into the bedroom, she whirled around to face him. The stun gun was still in her hand. He saw her eyes dart to the knife in his hand.

"Don't worry," he reassured her, slowly closing the distance between them. "This is only for if you're incompliant."

She darted away from him, towards the window. Oh, so he _would_ need it. A shame. Her skin was perfect. But there were ways to cover the blemishes.

Quickly, he turned on his heel and swiveled towards her. His pace quickened.

And then something unexpected—she charged at him. No, she was trying to dart around him. Stefano lifted his arm, prepared to grab her.

He didn't realize doing so left his side vulnerable, nor had he expected her to strike out at him, until he felt the quick, excruciating jab in his exposed side—like hundreds of needles pinpointed in one small spot in his side. He grunted out sharply through clenched teeth. Fuck, dammit! His hand came up and pressed against the burning spot. The stun gun's contact had only lasted for a second, but the muscles in his side were spasming at the touch.

Something else had been stirred up besides the pain, rising above it—rage. Stefano saw her raise the stun gun again. Before she could get him again, he shoved her. She stumbled back. He flew at her as she did.

The crackling end of the stun gun met his shoulder, but at that point he already had the knife hilt-deep in her stomach. They locked eyes for a heartbeat, and then Stefano quickly withdrew back, one hand clenched tightly over his twitching shoulder. The other was convulsing too hard to hold onto the knife, and it dropped to the floor. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to need it anyway.

She was holding her stomach, but red was starting to creep through the cloth. Her brow furrowed, and she let out a hollow breath. Her legs buckled and she fell to the ground. Stefano let go of his shoulder and walked towards her.

Her eyes were still trained on him. She was still holding the stun gun and weakly lifted it. What petty defiance. A foot came down and crushed her wrist against the floor. She cried out, and the crackling device dropped from her grip.

He kicked it away. Then, he turned away and left her there on the ground as he returned to the bathroom. There he retrieved his camera.

The blood had stained her entire front by the time he came back to her. Oh, how glorious. How beautiful. The way she was trying to pitifully lift herself up, but was pinned down by the draining of her strength… It was too perfect.

At the sound of the camera's shutter, she looked up. She looked straight into the camera lens as though it was an eye. Stefano lowered the camera. Her eyes were still focused on it as if it was the real threat.

He crouched down. "Now," he said. His hand found the discarded stun gun. "Let's see what we can create with you."

The device's end pulsed freely in open air before it found contact with skin. She screamed only for a short while—only until the electricity pulsing through her from her neck paralyzed her. She slumped, limp like a corpse. But she wasn't ready yet.

Stefano turned the stun gun off and tossed it aside. Putting the camera on the nearby vanity, he picked the limp body up and carried it to the bathroom. There, he dumped it into the bathtub. Water jumped up as it was displaced. Stefano stepped back and let out a huff of irritation as a bit of it sloshed over onto his shoes. He flicked the water off of one with a quick kick, and then reached over to turn her so that she was facedown in the water. It wouldn't take long—just a short wait.

"Do me a favor, my dear, and stay there until I get back," he jested to her lightly before turning away. He unlocked the bedroom door and walked out. The orchestra faded as the door behind him closed.

From the bright, sunlit kitchen of the isolated lake house, the coffee maker chimed cheerily.


	10. Inside

_**A/N: The Evil Within 2 Drinking Game - Sebastian Edition: Take a drink every time Sebastian curses, says Lily or Myra's name, or mentions Beacon. Finish your drink every time you run out of ammo for a weapon.**_

 _ **Play this and the Stefano rules in the same playthrough for maximum liver failure.**_

* * *

It was quiet in the penthouse, deathly quiet. The soles of his shoes tapped loudly against the dark hardwood floor. Ledford walked across the empty living room and stopped in front of the sliding glass door. Beyond was the balcony and Krimson City's skyline. Letting out a frustrated breath, he turned away from the glass. Streams of light poured in from behind him, pulling his shadow far along the floor.

He had searched the entire penthouse—nothing. No sign of Chaparé or where she could be. The phone had no recent voicemails or outgoing calls. The place was clean. There was nothing to support Ledford's suspicions of Amonte.

A call was made to Hendriks. "Ledford," she answered. "Find anything?"

"Penthouse is empty," Ledford replied. "No sign of Chaparé."

The line was silent, but Ledford could feel Hendriks's disappointment. "Haven't had anything turn up either," she said. "No sign of Chaparé except for CCTV footage of her car going eastbound on 45th. I've got the parties currently scouting for that vehicle—right now it's the best lead we can follow."

"Right," Ledford said, stepping through the penthouse. "I'll do one more sweep here and join you."

"Good luck."

"Likewise."

Ledford hung up. Talking with Hendriks always seemed to clear his head from all the doubt and stress that seemed to love crowding it. Ledford stopped by the piano that sat at the far corner of the living room. It was a vertical piano—just like the one Bunny used to practice on. Only the one they had was a second-hand Baldwin bought at a garage sale, while this one was a slick black one. The elegant symbol of a harp rested over a golden, curling _Steinway & Sons_. Hell, even the logo itself looked expensive.

The piano seat was covered in studded cushioning. Ledford cocked his head as he examined in. His hand gently gripped the edge of the seat. He felt it move and lifted it. The piano seat swung up on a hinge like a lid.

Stored inside the seat were sheets of music. Ledford grabbed a bundle and quickly sifted through them. He'd never played an instrument before, but even he could tell these were complicated songs. Clair de Lune—ah, he recognized that one. Though Ledford wasn't sure if he'd ever heard it. There were some familiar musician names: Beethoven, Mozart. There was also Ludovico Einaudi, Felix Mendelssohn, and a whole assortment of other names Ledford had no clue how to pronounce.

It was just sheet music in here—again, nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until Ledford grabbed a second handful of papers. Then his eyes snapped down to the piano seat's cavity. Near the bottom was an anomaly. It was a piece of paper that had been folded into thirds. It looked old. Time had yellowed it just slightly. Ledford reached down and picked it up. As he did, something fell out from within it—what looked to be an old Polaroid. Ignoring it for the time being, Ledford opened the paper. It was a handwritten letter. The ink was a rich dark blue, and the penmanship was elegant.

 _My dearest Celestina,_

 _I hope your time in America has treated you well. As such, I thought it would be appropriate to pen this letter in English. I watched your last broadcasted interview. You are getting so fluent. Maybe I'm just being silly._

 _Although I miss you terribly, my heart swells with pride whenever I hear your name mentioned. You were always my talented little angel. My sweet, I know we never really saw eye-to-eye when you were young. I wish I could tell you this in person, but I want you to know that I loved the both of you with all my heart._

 _I have other news to tell you, though this is a bit graver. Papa hasn't been feeling well these past few months. He's in the hospital right now. They're taking good care of him. Don't worry over him too much, but please try to come back home if you can to see him. It would make Papa so happy to see his little angel again._

 _I have enclosed something special with this letter. I found this while going through the old photo albums in the study. It's one of my fondest memories, and I hope it's one of yours as well. Take care, my sweet, and keep on shining._

 _Love,_

 _Mama_

Ledford glanced down and took up the photograph. It was then he noticed the ragged edge. About a third of the Polaroid had been torn off. As he traced the ripped edge, he examined the picture.

It showed a beautiful woman with short, chestnut hair in a loose-style evening dress. She had a hand that rested gently on the shoulder of a young girl that stood at her side. The girl had similarly colored hair and wore a midnight blue dress and white stockings. The child's other hand was loosely extended. Ledford caught another hand holding hers. The rest of whomever that other hand belonged to had disappeared beyond the torn edge.

Flipping the photograph over, the detective found the words 'Primo recital di Celestina, 1987' written on the back.

Ledford's brow furrowed, not sure what to make of this newfound information. But it had nothing to do with Chaparé, Valentini, or the missing women. He had no choice but to declare it irrelevant, and this search fruitless.

He put everything back into the seat and shut the lid. He turned away, heading towards the front door. There was nothing to it. Time to join Hendriks and the rest of the search.

* * *

It was evening when she heard him return. Her hands paused over the ivory keys, and then continued dancing over them. The song emerged from the deep, reverberating belly of the grand piano. Her eyes lifted briefly when he stepped into view before lowering back down to her hands. Through her peripheral vision, she watched him take a seat nearby to listen.

Every now and then, between measures, her foot would lift from the dampening pedal before pressing down again. Her hands moved up and down the keys, reaching for higher octaves, and then lower. As she neared the end of her song, she saw him rise and walk slowly towards her. Her eyes remained lowered.

When her fingers pressed down on the last chord, Celestina saw a gloved hand reach down and rest delicately over her forearm. Then it slid against her skin, climbing up her arm and along her shoulder. It stopped at the base of her neck, fingertips resting in a line along her collarbone. She took a deep breath.

"Amore mio," his voice rumbled softly behind her, "how beautifully you play."

Celestina suddenly smirked. She reached up and squeezed a hand over his. "We are both masters in our own right," she replied. Still holding onto him, she slid to the end of the piano seat and stood. She turned to face him.

Stefano regarded her calmly, lovingly. He looked so normal. If Celestina hadn't known better, she would have never suspected him of what he had done earlier that day. But oh, normal was so dull. "And what of your latest?" she asked. "Can I see it?"

"It's still in progress."

"Oh." Celestina huffed gently. "You know I detest waiting."

"Tit for tat. You kept me waiting all this time." A thumb came up and traced Celestina's lower lip. The leather was cold. She saw Stefano bring his face closer. As her eyes closed, they suddenly caught something. Celestina pulled her face down. Her hand touched his shoulder.

"What's this?" At her fingertips, a dark blot stained his blazer.

Stefano looked down to where her hand was. "Ah. This one had fangs."

"How terrible of me! To think, I put you in that kind of danger!" They both laughed at the notion. Suddenly, Stefano swooped down and caught her lips with his. Celestina's breath was quickly cut off. The suffocation was sweet, and she found herself disappointed when he pulled away. "So," she continued, teasing his collar, "where is she now?"

"Well hidden until she's ready to be displayed," Stefano answered. "Though…" Celestina smiled in anticipation. "Until then, I have something to show you." He stepped around her, still holding a hand against the small of her back.

A piece of burgundy cloth was draped over a long, rectangular object by the door. Celestina regarded it silently. Then she heard Stefano say, "Well, amore mio? Why don't you take a look underneath?" His hand left her back. Celestina glanced at him.

"It's not a puppy, is it?" she asked as she crouched down by the box.

"I'm afraid you should have mentioned that earlier if you wanted one."

"Oh," Celestina scoffed lightly, turning back to the box. "I'm not too fond of living in a house covered in hair."

"No, it's not a very pleasant experience."

Celestina shot him a backward glare. "Well, I'll be sure to start picking up after myself once you do. I don't suppose you left that hand in the bathroom while you were playing around with the KCPD?" She saw his chin tighten as his lips pursed.

Then he answered, "Why don't you look under the cloth, amore mio?"

Celestina pinched a corner of the cloth and whisked it off. Underneath was a terrarium. Within the glass confines was a dismembered human arm, which had been cut off right at the elbow. It was covered in a brown layer of something, but the exposed skin that could be seen glistened within a fine layer of honey. The brown coat appeared to be moving. Celestina leaned down and realized it was made up of ants that had swarmed to the scent of honey.

She stood up, eyes still glowered to the glass. "Hmm," she hummed. "This is different."

"Just thought I'd branch out a bit. I have a particular image in mind with this piece."

"How long will it take?"

"It should be stripped bare in a day or two." She felt him come up behind her and slip a thumb underneath the strap of her dress. With a light tug, it fell from her shoulder. "But there are things to do in the meantime while we wait." Celestina's lips twitched. She suddenly marched back towards the studio, breaking away from Stefano. He followed after her. She did love the sound—it reminded her of when they had first met. It was the sound of being wanted. For once.

"Make sure that thing is sealed tight," she said coldly. "I don't want those things getting out and crawling around. And get it out of sight in case that detective comes sniffing around here too."

She heard him sigh behind her. "Is someone else making you upset, amore mio?" Celestina stopped by the piano. She brought a hand up and pinched the pearls around her neck.

After a pause, she answered. "Mama called me again while you were out."

She heard Stefano stop. "I see," he said. "And?"

"He's in the hospital again. Third time. They thought he was getting over it, but Papa relapsed a few days ago." She looked over as Stefano walked over to the glass wall. At a small table, he poured himself a glass of brandy. "She was asking again for me to come home." With a sneer, she added, "Even talked about bringing you with me."

Stefano was silent as he brought the glass up to his lips. Celestina tried to read his silence, but couldn't. How she wished she could see what he was thinking. Finally, he said, "I understand you must be concerned."

"Impatient, more like," Celestina replied curtly, her hand tightening over her necklace. "But as they say, third time's the charm."

"How callous." Stefano turned away from the window to look at her. "He's your father."

Celestina tore her eyes away from his gaze, lowering them to the floor. He had no idea—he couldn't understand. When her mother had put Papa on the phone, he had called Celestina by _her_ name. Oh, Mama tried to briskly explain that illness had weakened his mind and kept him from recognizing her. But that only made it worse. It told Celestina which one of the two Papa _truly_ only ever valued.

"I have good reason for my lack of love," Celestina said. "As you said, tit for tat."

"You know, I've come to realize something." Celestina looked over. Stefano was facing the window, but he was watching her in the reflection. His transparent eye held her gaze. "I don't really know who you are. My own wife. Imagine that."

"Yes you do," Celestina said, lowering her hand. She lowered her hand and walked towards him. In the reflection, she saw his gaze dip down to her hips as they rocked with every step. "You are married to La Contessa. And you know her _quite_ well."

Instead of answering, Stefano took another sip out of the glass. His eye stared forward as Celestina stopped by him. "You're going to show me what's behind that mask eventually," he said.

Celestina hugged his arm with both of hers, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. "Why don't I show you what's behind this dress instead?" Her hand came up, tugging apart the top button of his shirt. But before it could go further, it was suddenly caught in Stefano's tight grip. Celestina's eyes flew up to his.

He let go of her hand. "Amore mio," he said. "Go play me another song." He offered her a small smile and delicately tapped her nose with his finger. Celestina paused before letting go of his arm. As she walked back to the piano, she glanced over her shoulder. At the window, Stefano took another sip of brandy.

She stopped by the Steinway but didn't take a seat. Staring down at the ivory keys, Celestina suddenly furrowed her brow. Her hand, rested against the glistening black instrument, clenched.

"If you want to listen to music," she shot over her shoulder, "then go play one of your records." As she turned sharply and headed towards the house end, she heard Stefano quietly say, "Why are you so peeved that your husband just wants to know more about you?"

As her steps slowed, she couldn't help but break out into a sheepish, nervous smile as she admitted, "I don't want you to know."

"Why not?"

Celestina looked over at him. "I'm afraid you won't like me."

Stefano tilted his head. "And why would that be?"

Celestina's hand quickly came back up to her pearls again. "I'm going to bed," she suddenly announced. "Good night, my darling."

* * *

"You're listening to Morning Talk on Station Ninety-Five point Eight. Good foggy morning, Krimson City. I'm Alex."

"I'm Sarah. Hopefully you're keeping safe on your morning commutes. The roads are a little slick today, and there's expected to be a mild thunderstorm this evening."

"That's right, but whatever the weather, we're here to help get you through your morning. First, an update on Marie Chaparé, the Broadway actress who went missing a week ago. Police are saying they are still searching extensively for her. Our hearts and prayers are going out to her friends and family, and we can only hope she returns to them safely and soundly."

"Hopefully that hasn't soured your morning coffee. Here's a bit of brighter news—a month ago, J.K. Rowling published her seventh and final installment of the Harry Potter series worldwide, and copies are _still_ rolling right off the press."

"Yup, and I got mine the day of."

"You and several others, Alex. Within 24 hours of publication, 11 _million_ copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows were sold. How far into the book have you gotten?"

"I finished it off within a week of getting it."

"For real?"

"I've been waiting a long time for this."

"Well don't you start spoiling it for the rest of us."

"What kind of person do you think I am? Anyway, another update on Krimson City's favorite lovebirds. After the delay from the tour and KCPD's false arrest, Celestina and Stefano are finally getting their break. The couple was seen departing from the Krimson City International Airport to go to their honeymoon location in the British Virgin Islands."

"Fan- _cy_."

"Didn't you and James go someplace nice for your honeymoon?"

"Cozumel, but we didn't rent out a whole island to ourselves."

"Is that what they're doing?"

"That's what the word is. A _whole_ island. Some people just have money to burn."

"Well, there'll be a lot of space to sightsee—."

"I mean who even needs—?"

"—Each other."

* * *

His eyes were glazed over as they stared out the window. He was aware of sounds, but could hardly register them. His attention was stuck in the brooding quicksand pit in his mind. _No use at this point_ , he thought grimly. _By this time, KCPD's not searching for a missing person anymore. We're just looking for a body. I'm sorry, Marie. I tried—I really did._

"—son. Hey, Earth to Jackson. Get down from orbit."

Ledford blinked. Immediately, the vapid blur around him became an office. He was once again aware of the sunlight streaming from the window next to him and the hard edge of the desk he was leaning on. Ledford turned his head.

There was a woman in the office with him and Sebastian. She hadn't been there before. Ledford blinked and straightened up from the desk, turning to face the woman. She had short brown hair and was wearing the standard officer uniform. Ledford glanced at Sebastian. "Hmm?" he grunted.

"This is Officer Juli Kidman—she was stopping by," Sebastian said with a brisk wave towards the woman. "Seeing as you're here too, thought you might as well say hi. She's KCPD's newest addition to the force."

"That so?" Ledford said, looking back at Kidman. She gazed back calmly with her dark-colored eyes. She certainly _looked_ smart—Ledford knew it was only a matter of time before she climbed the ranks and was made junior detective.

He shot a side-glance at Sebastian. The older detective was looking back with a silent glare that said _don't you dare_. Sebastian, and the rest of the force, was well aware of Ledford's devilish propensity to scare new recruits with exaggerated first impressions at every chance he got.

Ledford looked back at Kidman. "Welcome aboard, Kidman. I'm Detective Ledford, here with the homicide division so you might see me around here and hangin' with good ol'Seb."

Kidman paused, and then replied, "Nice meeting you too, Detective."

Ledford crossed his arms and looked back at Sebastian, who was still eyeing him like a hawk. Innocently lifting his eyebrows, Ledford announced, "Well, time to get back to work." He stepped forward and meandered around the young woman. Just as he was passing through the door, he turned his head and said over his shoulder, "See ya around, meat shield." He could practically see Sebastian slapping his palm against his forehead.

Ledford thought about returning to his own office, but his steps slowed at the suggestion. To be honest, that place was starting to feel more and more like a prison. The detective stopped in his tracks, eyes lowered.

He considered calling Hendriks for an update. They were taking in turns to lead the searches. Hendriks had insisted after seeing Ledford in the state he was in. But as tired and frazzled as he was, goddamn was he restless. Still, calling Hendriks now would only be nagging her. She was working hard—all the men and women out in the field were. But that didn't stop Ledford from being restless.

He decided to step out of the department. Some fresh air would do him good. The detective went out to the parking lot, looking out at the cars that were scattered loosely across the lots. With a sigh, he lowered himself down and sat on the edge of the curb. The concrete was damp and the air was humid from a few days' worth of storms. Ledford lifted his eyes towards the overcast sky. _Like looking into a mirror of my soul_ , he thought dryly.

From behind, Ledford suddenly heard quiet steps approach him. Well, whoever it was, it wasn't Sebastian—unless he'd taken up wearing heels.

As the steps stopped next to him, Ledford turned his eyes to the side to see black, heeled boots peeking out from under dark blue jeans. Well this was unexpected. Ledford cocked his head to the side as he scratched his neck. "Did I forget something back at Seb's office?"

"Ledford," he heard Kidman say quietly. "You're one of the detectives leading the investigation on the string of murders, right?"

"Huh. You've been listening to the office water tank chat, haven't you, meat shield?"

The boots next to him moved. Kidman took a seat on the curb beside him. "You say it right on your face," she said. "I hope you know none of this is your fault."

Ledford stared forward. He didn't know what to say. Or what to think. If it wasn't his fault, then whose was it? What use was a wall if it couldn't keep out the wind? A roof that let the rain in? Ledford pulled back his sleeve and glanced down at his watch. "I have to get back to work."

As he stood, Kidman said, "Sebastian told me you say that a lot."

"It's true," Ledford replied. He turned back and headed into the department. Before going through the door, he glanced back at Kidman. She was still sat on the curb, facing towards the lifeless lot. Ledford turned away and let the door close behind him. What was that about? He wasn't quite sure what to make of the new recruit.

None of this is your fault. Ledford reached up, scrubbing his face with a hand. None of this is your fault. _Keep telling yourself that if it's the only thing left to keep you sane._ Ledford stopped right outside the evidence room. From within the electronically locked door were shelves after shelves of lockers, each one belonging to a detective and holding evidence of their current cases. Ledford's eyes drifted towards the door, and he began to wonder—.

The phone in Ledford's pocket went off. The detective pressed a hand tightly over his eyes. Still squeezing his hand over his eyes, he took the phone out and held it against his ear. "Yeah," he answered curtly.

"Ledford." It was Hendriks. "We found her." Ledford braced himself, but the blow struck him bare all the same. "Deceased."

Ledford slid his hand slowly down his face, scraping his skin. "God _fucking_ dammit," he hissed under his breath.

"That's not just it," Hendriks continued. Ledford hesitated. There was something worse than Chaparé's death? He almost didn't want to hear it. "Ledford… your name is here too."


	11. Serlano, Italy

Late August meant that the southern hemisphere was warming up. That, coupled with the gentle crashing of waves and shushing of wind rustling through foliage, provided a respite he didn't know he needed.

He thought he would miss the buildings. Between growing up in Italy and living in the States, city life was all he knew. And he thought he would detest the isolation—the removal of his proximity to create. And in truth, it did bother him just a little. But then again, he wasn't alone on this little pocket of land.

Stefano had never really considered himself acting under the will of a muse. From the start, it had always felt like the inspiration was innate. Like any living thing, nourished until it had the strength to stand on its own feet. And then, like a creature of sentience, it had encountered something that gave it a purpose.

But having a muse was… interesting. It had been a long time since he'd welcomed the companionship of another. Celestina was different than anyone he had ever known. She was like a well-composed painting—at first glance, an aesthetical piece. Even to the untrained eye, something to admire. But look closely, and there were small details missed at the first and even second viewing; once spotted, changed the entire composition. And like an obsessed gallery patron, Stefano made it almost a game to pick out as many hidden details as possible. Judging by her first reaction at his attempt to pry, the artist was none too keen to reveal her true motives behind these subtleties. Oh well—speculation was just as fun.

He tried to guess at what she was like before she stepped onto the stage. His first clue was her behavior around him. His dear Celestina seemed to be trying so hard to live a normal life—albeit, a grand one. Away from civilization, away from the crowds and cameras and the eyes of adoration, she didn't seem the least bit miffed. Not like him. Her eyes didn't search for headlines that sang her praises or gave her some clue as to which rising talent to grow bitter over next. In fact, his muse seemed to change entirely on that island. Never once did she mention Marie, or ask what became of her. In her sweet voice, she mewled for Stefano's attention, almost desperately. And when he gave it to her, she purred like a cat in a sunspot.

How strange, Stefano mused. Since that first day, he had never again considered Celestina a woman to use as one of his pieces. At this point—and it amused even himself upon realization of this—he considered her too precious to use in a fleeting piece of artwork. Once transformed, she would only have a short time to linger before she spoiled. That was why he took photographs, but he would find little value in a small, glossy rectangle with just her image. He wanted his muse preserved in the flesh, with a pulse he could feel with his lips and warmth he could combine with his own.

Funny. He gave a cheerless chuckle at this thought—was this what those people in the cities called love? He had already said his vows. What was next? Little ones? Oh dear.

It was this damn island, devoid of the artificial sounds of mankind he was used to. It was making him think these ridiculous things.

Stefano sought out refuge from the deafening silence and looked for Celestina. He found her on the second-floor balcony of the villa. Both of her hands were rested on the wooden railing, with one gently gripping the curved stem of a margarita glass. Her back was turned towards him, and the thin string of her blue bikini top followed its curve. Around her hips she wore a tied skirt, though its lacework was completely transparent. The balcony door was open, inviting. Stepping through and into the sun, Stefano stopped by Celestina and placed a hand on her back.

She had just touched the salt rim to her lips when she quickly lowered it. "You wear your gloves even here? I shudder to think how clammy your hands will get." Leaving the margarita glass on the balcony, she turned towards him and took his hand. Pinching the tip of one of his fingers, she pulled the glove off with a few quick tugs. Then she took his hand from her back and did the same with that one. "See?" she offered, clenching the gloves in one hand. "Not so bad, isn't it?"

Hmm. This wasn't her first mention of them. Another glimpse at a hidden detail. Instead of answering, Stefano took up Celestina's glass from the rail and drank from it. As he did, he rested a hand on Celestina's waist and traced its womanly curve with his bare skin.

"Most people only see these kinds of beaches in pictures," Celestina remarked, gazing out towards the shore. "Did you ever photograph white sands, Stefano?"

"Afghan sands aren't quite as pale," Stefano answered. "Nor as smooth—often it was laced with gravel and dotted with rocks and desert shrubs."

"You mean back when you were overseas?"

"Yes."

Celestina turned her head towards him. She plucked the glass out of his hand. "There's a lot I don't know about you either," she admitted. "Seems we're two mysteries that fell in love." There she went, using that word too. Stefano wondered if she even knew what it meant.

"Then why don't you tell me who you are." He didn't phrase it like a question. His arm tightened around her waist, locking him at her side. And yet, he didn't fell Celestina resist even the slightest.

She raised the margarita glass. "Maybe after a few more of these," she teased. She took a delicate sip, and then said, "Darling, why are you holding me like this?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"As much as I enjoy your hands on me, I'd rather they be holding mine while you lead me to the water," Celestina replied, gently swirling her glass. Stefano didn't miss her quick changing of the subject. But when her eyes turned to him, with their sinful twinkle, he found himself distracted. "I've always wondered what it would be like to make love on a beach."

"Sandy," Stefano answered. "It'll get everywhere."

The devilish smirk dropped from Celestina's face, but she said, "I suppose you're right. And I bet it'd be course and irritating." With a sigh, she pressed up against his side. "What about here then, my darling? Right here on this balcony."

Stefano's eyes swept over the landscape. "And you're not afraid of someone stumbling in on us?" Despite what the public believed, they hadn't rented out the entire island to themselves. Rather, only the expansive villa they resided in now was theirs for the time being. The island was dotted with other villas, currently occupied by other vacationers. They were too spread out to even catch glimpses of each other. Still, if anyone decided to take a seaside stroll a bit too far in their direction…

"Let them watch," Celestina said wickedly.

"I've found myself wed to a scandalous woman," Stefano mused, moving behind Celestina. He pushed forward until he had her pinned against the rail, reveling in the sharp gasp she let out.

"And you love it, really."

He did. Reaching up, Stefano pulled at the blue knot at the back of her neck and watched it come loose.

* * *

As soon as the patrol car was parked in the side of the road, Ledford got out and stepped over the curb and onto the grass. The bank sloped down into a gentle hillside. Ledford descended carefully, moving slowly over the dewy grass.

The area underneath the overpass was roped off with police tape. Ledford saw several officers grouped close to the tape—avoiding the area underneath the overpass itself. Recognizing Ledford, they acknowledged him with silent nods, their faces grim. Ledford stooped down as he pulled the police tape up and crossed the boundary. "Is Hendriks down there?" he asked them, jerking his head towards the shadowed area.

"Yeah."

"Right." The word came out in a sigh as the detective walked past the officers. As he neared the underside of the bridge, he looked up just in time to see the sun disappearing behind the concrete overpass. He looked back down. And then he froze.

This one still had her head. Her face. Marie Chaparé. He had seen her face countless times in the past few days—ID photos, publicity shots. In all of them, she looked happy. Her eyes had glimmered.

Here it was pale. Waxen. Dead, because Ledford had been powerless to stop whoever had did this to her. And that wasn't the worst part.

She had been posed just like Sawyer. Some sick mind had arranged her post-mortem into something they considered… pleasing? Ledford wasn't quite insane enough to be sure what they were thinking. Chaparé had been arranged in a standing position, balancing on tiptoe like a ballerina. Her head was leaned towards one shoulder, and from that shoulder an arm extended. Except this arm, from the elbow down, was stripped bare—right down to the bone. And in the skeletal hand was a bouquet with some flowers still not quite withered enough to lose their color. It was as though the corpse was offering the bouquet.

From her shoulder blades were two tiny wings, also skeletons. Likely, they had come from a bird. In fact, Ledford could see a dismembered crow's head among the blossoms in the bouquet.

The detective stepped closer. He spotted Hendriks nearby. They met eyes. Before she could say anything, Ledford demanded, "Where's my name?"

Hendriks took out her handheld light and clicked it on. Then she pointed the beam. God, the light made the body easier to see. "There," she said. "On the flowers."

Dangling from the tissue paper that held the bouquet together was a small tag. TO JACKSON LEDFORD. The corpse was offering the flowers to him. To the detective that didn't save her. It was Marie's parting gift.

Ledford took a deep breath. He dropped his eyes. And then he saw it—there on the ground. The card tent.

 **Failure (2007)**

Turning away, Ledford suddenly screamed out. His voice echoed in the cavernous space. He hurried over to a nearby pillar and leaned heavily onto it with a hand. He heard Hendriks come up next to him.

"Ledford," she said, her voice firm. "Listen to me, Ledford. This isn't your fault."

 _None of this is your fault_. Ledford squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly feeling dizzy. _Keep telling yourself that. Don't stop. Don't let yourself slip. None of this is your fault. None of this is your fault_.

* * *

When she came back from the bathroom, she nestled up against his side. A hand came up and draped across his chest. With her lips pressed against his shoulder, she giggled softly.

The exhaustion was sweet—a reduction of the wild passion shared just moments earlier. And while each aftermath left him tired, Celestina seemed rejuvenated each time. Her humming would fill his ears while he waited for his heart rate to slow back its normal thrum.

"So how does a man," he heard Celestina say, "with a camera become a murderer? Become my dear photographer?"

Stefano hesitated. No other soul other than his knew his story. Never once had he laid those pages out bare for another to read. He didn't know why he did now. Maybe it was being on this island. Maybe it was the way Celestina gently ran her nails up and down his skin. Or maybe because after all these years, he wanted validation and this was the only way to get it.

"1989," he recalled. "I was 12 when I got my first camera."

* * *

 _April of 1989—Salerno, Italy_

It was a Polaroid Spectra that his mother had gotten him for his birthday. The thing was oddly shaped. The overall shape of the device was like that of partially open book—with the lens being where the pages would be and the spine-end where the eye was leveled. Once a picture was snapped, the camera would whirr and buzz loudly as the slot below the lens spat out the glossy, photograph.

For the next few weeks, when he didn't have it up to his eye, he had the camera cradled protectively against his chest. Suddenly, the coastal city he'd grown up in was presented in a new light.

The one or two hours after school let out became precious—it was a small window where there was enough daylight to take pictures. Homework could wait until after the sun set, or when Mama made him do it.

Stefano had taken enough pictures of the water—of the line that separated the soft sky's blue with the deep ocean one. Of course, he was at that time still a runt of a photographer, and those snapped horizons were never aligned right. Sometimes there would be a boat in them. A seagull. Whatever caught his eye and he happened to raise his camera in time to capture.

He took pictures of the dockworkers at the piers. With a press of a button, he had frozen their everyday lives of unloading cargo and fishing nets within borders of white. When they noticed the boy, some of them stopped to pose. Click. Click. It was all good fun. Then, it was back to work.

When Stefano lowered the camera, he noticed a pair of eyes watching him. They belonged to a boy who seemed around his age. He wore nothing but a pair of sun-bleached denim overalls over his lean frame. His golden brown hair looked as though it had been a while since it had touched a barber's shears—though by the looks of the uneven locks, perhaps it'd been cut by someone at home.

They regarded each other silently, one child to another. Stefano didn't even raise his camera. Then, someone further down the pier shouted, "Giacomo!" The boy turned and hurried away. Stefano blinked. What was he doing? Oh, right. He looked to the sun. There was still time.

He brought the camera to school, and his peers were jealous. They were always jealous of anything new and shiny that didn't belong to them. But they found great fun in having their pictures taken. "Me next!" they would shout, pushing their way into view of the lens. They would smile wide, childish smiles while they waited for the click to sound. A pair of girls posed together, each holding dandelions they had picked just seconds earlier. A boy wanted a picture of him jumping in midair, though it took a few tries before Stefano got the timing down.

He liked taking their pictures. He liked how happy it made them. It was like having several friends without having to get too close. The only downside was that often, he didn't get to keep those pictures. They always wanted to hold onto them.

The teachers told Stefano to keep the camera in the cubby under his desk while he was in class. He obeyed, but he was antsy throughout the lectures. He was almost afraid that if he didn't keep his eyes on it, the camera would simply disappear. But it never did, and always when midday recess or the end of lessons came around, he would reach down and feel that it was still there.

A shrill bell announced the end of the day. At the sound of freedom, schoolchildren flooded the halls with their packs to meet up with friends and go home. Stefano planned on heading straight for the general store. He was running low on film. His Spectra probably had only a handful more photographs left in it.

He had slung his backpack over his shoulder and was picking up his camera when he heard someone nearby ask, "Is it new?" Stefano looked up. He saw a boy with messy, golden brown locks and immediately recognized him. To be honest, Stefano hadn't even realized they were classmates.

"What?" Stefano asked.

"Your camera. Did your parents buy it new?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." The response was soft. "That's cool."

"Yeah," Stefano said again, this time dismissively. He pushed his chair in and looked back to see that the boy had already walked away. What a weirdo. A street rat, Mama would have called him. He worked on the docks.

Stefano stopped by the general store as planned and bought more film. He stored the new pack in his backpack and headed out to use up the last of his current roll. Stopping at a street, Stefano took a picture of the stretch of road, bordered by walls of pale, Roman-styled buildings. Then he walked and walked until he passed the buildings and found a small back road surrounded by small trees. There was a large boulder sitting in the grass, its fissures jammed with dirt and sand. Stefano photographed it. There was a tree with a funny-looking knot, and he photographed it. He liked the way the palm trees in the distance looked, so he photographed them.

He'd reached the end of his roll, so he sat down on the grass to replace it. Stefano placed the empty roll and packaging into his backpack and stood up. A quiet chitter caught his attention.

There was a squirrel standing a good two meters away. Stefano crouched down and raised his camera. In the viewfinder, the squirrel looked small. It'd only be a vaguely coherent dot in the actual photograph, but he didn't want to get any closer and risk scaring it off. With one eye squeezed shut and the other concentrating on the viewfinder, Stefano positioned the camera until the little dot was centered. His hand tightened and his finger was on the verge of pressing down onto the button.

A large black blur covered the viewfinder and disappeared in a heartbeat. The loud roar of a passing engine made the boy jump. Still peering through the viewfinder, he saw that the squirrel was gone. No, not gone. It was…

Slowly, Stefano lowered the camera. He stood up. Each hesitant step over the grass brought him closer. The squirrel had been standing on asphalt, unaware.

Stefano stopped just short of where the grass ended. He looked down, eyes wide.

Claws scrabbled frantically against the asphalt. The squirrel, confused and afraid, tried desperately to get away but was pinned down by its own crushed flesh. Flattened skin and muscle were glued to the pavement by blood and guts. Stefano was astounded that the thing was still even alive. Yet here it was—struggling. Fighting for life even with half its body smeared against the road.

The child in Stefano told him that it was afraid. What he was seeing was horrific and he didn't like it. But then there was a second voice, one he had never heard before.

 _This one is perfect_ , it whispered. _Take a picture_.

The hand holding the camera twitched. But he couldn't lift it. He was still afraid. So transfixed was Stefano at the sight, he didn't hear the quick steps coming up. Suddenly a foot came into view, perched over the squirrel's head. It came down. Stefano heard a sickening pop. Then all was silent—the scrabbling had stopped.

As if broken out of a trance, Stefano looked up. He looked into the eyes of the boy from the docks. "What did you do that for?" he demanded.

The boy glared back. "It was in pain," he said. "There was nothing else we could do."

 _There was something else I could have done._

The boy with the golden brown hair walked off the road and stopped by Stefano. The both of them looked towards the dead squirrel with the flattened head. Glancing down, Stefano saw the boy wiping the bottom of his shoe against the grass. "Don't look at it," he told Stefano. "Let's go." He spotted the camera in Stefano's hands as they headed back up the street. "You're the camera boy."

Camera boy. It made him sound like some kind of dumb superhero. "And you're the dock boy."

"You make me sound like some kind of dumb superhero."

Stefano quickly looked up at the boy. Feeling Stefano's gaze, he glanced back. "What?"

"Nothing," Stefano said quickly, diverting his eyes. "I've seen you around. What's your name?"

"Giacomo."

That's right. That's what the dockworker had called him. "Did you know we're in the same class, Giacomo?"

"Yeah," Giacomo replied. "You notice a lot of things when you're the quiet one. Like that you're quiet too. What was your name again?"

"Stefano."

"There's a man on the docks also named Stefano. To set you both apart, you can be Stefano the Camera Boy."

"No. That's stupid."

"You're stupid."

"Take a long walk off a short pier."

Giacomo laughed. Stefano couldn't help but smile a bit. He had never made a friend, well, a _friend_ friend before. He didn't like the closeness required. But this was… nice. Almost effortless.

Giacomo Damiani was an only child, just like Stefano. But unlike Stefano, he only had a mother. Giacomo's father had died in a factory accident when Giacomo was just two years old. His mother ran a business out of her home selling and mending clothes, but the money only stretched so far. So, as soon as Giacomo was strong enough to lift a crate, he began working on the docks. When he had the time, he also worked part-time for stores and restaurants—unloading boxes from trucks and into the storerooms.

Working out of necessity was a foreign thing to Stefano. To him, it was an adult thing, and he was still far from adulthood. Still, that difference wasn't enough to hold them apart. Soon, meeting up after school became a regular occurrence. They'd explore Salerno for a bit until Giacomo would have to go back to the docks.

Giacomo led Stefano to the seaside and showed him things he had never noticed before. Through the damp ropes that separated a walkway from the water, Giacomo pointed out the rocks just below the surface that were covered in barnacles. Occasionally, Giacomo told him, when the water was still, tiny crabs could be found crawling over the bumpy shells.

Stefano, of course, took a picture. Then, he pulled his camera back from between the ropes and straightened up. Aiming the lens, he said, "Giacomo, smile for the camera!"

Giacomo didn't give a smile. He gave more of a startled glance over his shoulder when the click sounded. Lowering the camera, Stefano plucked the photograph out of the slot. He glanced at it and admitted, "Maybe I took that one a bit too soon."

"Didn't even give me any time to react," Giacomo grumbled as he turned around to face Stefano. Leaning back against the ropes, he cracked a wide grin. The Spectra snapped a photo and pushed out the picture. But this time, Stefano didn't immediately take it. He held the camera out towards Giacomo. "How did it turn out?"

Reaching out, Giacomo took the photograph and looked it over. "Pretty good," he answered.

"You can keep it, then."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"Thanks!" Giacomo looked back down at the picture. "I can't wait to show Mama!" He looked down towards the piers, his smile quickly disappearing. "I think I need to go back and help out. Hey." He gave Stefano's shoulder a pat as he hurried past him. "I'll see you tomorrow!"

"Alright. See you, Giacomo." Stefano looked down at the empty slot. He looked out towards the water where the sun still hovered a good distance over the horizon. There was still time. Stefano peered down at the docks. From where the stood, the workers were tiny, moving shapes. He couldn't tell which one was Giacomo, but he knew his friend was down there.

 _Friend_. That word had come so naturally. Stefano put his camera away into his backpack and headed home.


	12. Days to Years

When Stefano arrived home, Mamma stopped him before he could reach his room. She addressed him in _that_ tone—the kind that told him to drop everything and listen. "Stefano," she said. "Marco told me you've been spending time with a boy from the dock. Is this true?"

"Yes, Mamma."

He didn't like how disappointed Mamma looked. Giacomo was his first true friend—the only person he actually _enjoyed_ being around. The only one he didn't have to hide certain facets of himself from.

"Has he ever asked you for money?"

Stefano paused. What was that supposed to mean? There was that one time he had bought the two of them crema fritta from a street vendor, but Giacomo hadn't asked for it. He'd just looked hesitant at the stand, and without even needing to ask, Stefano had understood.

"No."

"Okay," Mamma said, her hands still perched on her hips. "Just… if he does, let me know."

"Yes, Mamma."

Stefano had gone into his room and was unloading his backpack. He heard steps coming towards his door. "Stefano!" It was Papa this time. "Are you just getting home? What time is it? Have you done your homework yet?" There was a sharp pair of knocks on his door, and immediately it opened. Stefano saw his father's eyes immediately fall on the camera on his desk. "Have you been playing with that thing all day again?"

"Oh let him be," he heard Mamma say, her voice growing louder as she came down the hall towards them. "He's just a boy—let him have fun with it."

Papa let out a heavy breath through his nose. Then, in a low voice, he said, "Someday, Stefano, you're going to be the man of the house. You can have your fun, but keep in mind that your studies should be your top priority. Finish your homework."

"Yes, Papa."

The door to his room closed. Stefano plopped down on his chair, picking up his camera and checking the lens for any scratches. Papa was always talking about being the _man of the house_. Being the breadwinner. He had gone to school, gone to university. And he expected his son to do the same. To a man of Papa's background, photography and art could only ever be a _hobby_ —something to always take the backseat. Never to be pursued. Stefano hated that ideology.

But he had no choice but to listen because that was the way things were. Stefano set the camera down and bent down to pull his workbook out from his backpack. He wished he could talk to Giacomo. Everything always seemed better with him around.

They met up again after school the next day. As they roamed the streets, Stefano didn't take as many pictures, and Giacomo noticed. "Run out of things to snap?" he asked.

Stefano looked down at the device in his hands. "Do you think photography is a waste of time?"

"Why're you asking?"

"Papa thinks I waste my time with my camera. He thinks I should be something like a… a scientist or a lawyer. But I know I won't be happy as one. I'm an artist—I want to live by my camera."

"Photography is an art?"

Stefano shot Giacomo a glare. Meekly, his friend put his hands up. "Hey, I didn't know. I thought art was more… painting and drawing. Like Da Vinci." After a pause, he added, "Though I guess it takes a certain vision to take good pictures. I'm not an artist—I know that." He turned to Stefano. "What do you see in that little square you put your eye up to?"

"The viewfinder?"

"Yeah, that. Because when I look through it, all I see is what I've always seen—just with my peripheral vision cut off. What do _you_ see?"

What did he see? Stefano had never really put words to what exactly happened when he lifted the camera to his face. Things changed—not physically, but in his mind. Even though he was restricted to one little rectangle, what he saw through it was endless potential. To him, photography was a language that spoke beyond words. Different angles and lighting were the tones used in its messages.

"I see… a lot of things. It's hard to describe."

"See, that's why you shouldn't listen to your Papa. You can see things he can't," Giacomo said.

It was the first time anyone had actually encouraged his passion. Even Mamma saw it only as a hobby. And of all people, he was glad that it was Giacomo that had his back. But speaking of him, the golden brown-haired boy suddenly looked uneasy and almost sad.

"Giacomo? Something up?"

"I showed Mamma the picture you took," Giacomo began slowly. He was deliberately avoiding Stefano's eyes, instead staring out at the water. "She asked me which part of the city you lived, and when I told her she sat down in front of me. She told me not to expect us to be friends for much longer."

"Why would she say something like that?"

"She was just trying to warn me. Said as soon as your parents found out about me, they'll make you stay away. Mamma just didn't want me to be confused when it happened."

Stefano thought back to a few nights ago. His parents _had_ reacted negatively to Giacomo. But would Mamma really make him stay away? Papa? It was just like them not understanding the camera, not understanding how important it was to him. They lacked vision. If they told him to break off his friendship with Giacomo, he would be resolute in disobeying them.

"They don't mind," Stefano lied. Giacomo finally looked at him, and Stefano could see the cynicism in his eyes. "Really, they don't. As long as I stay in school and, you know, don't break the law or anything."

"So…?"

"We're friends, Giacomo. Nothing's going to change that."

Giacomo's face brightened. "Damn straight. Thanks, Camera Boy."

"Testa di cazzo," Stefano hissed. He quickly skirted out of the way when Giacomo tried to hit him. Behind them, a horn honked and a man on a motorbike shouted out them to get out of the way. The boys crossed the street and joined the flow of foot traffic on the sidewalk.

As they walked, Stefano said, "You were talking to Lucia today."

At that, the boy next to him was silent for a while. "Yeah," was the guarded reply.

"Well?" Stefano prompted. Giacomo shot him a side-glance. "Are you into her?"

"Maybe," Giacomo answered, which they both knew was just a reluctant way of saying yes.

"Don't blame you. She's pretty."

Lucia was a grade underneath the both of them. Her wide, pale blue eyes framed with dark lashes and long, copper brown hair were enough to make any male classmate stop and take a second look. At the start of their lunch break earlier that day, while Stefano had been waiting by the schoolyard entrance, he had caught Giacomo and Lucia walking out of the classroom together. He'd looked completely entranced by her, but Giacomo seemed to have had been in the middle of a sentence when Lucia had told him her goodbyes and hurried off.

Giacomo shrugged. "Doesn't matter. She spends a lot of time with Antelmo and Gabriele. Us quiet ones don't stand a chance, Stefano."

"Ohi! Speak for yourself!"

* * *

At the age of 14, both Stefano and Giacomo had graduated from lower secondary school and transferred to upper secondary school. At first, Giacomo was a little disappointed at no longer sharing a building with Lucia. Immediately, he brushed it off. He and Stefano were still together, and that's what mattered.

In the fall, their class took a trip to the Salerno Cathedral. There, they were led around the antiquated, 11th century building—Duomo di San Matteo, the tour guide called it. Saint Matthew's Cathedral. And within the structure was its crown jewel—the crypt that allegedly housed Saint Matthew's remains. It was a splendid combination of architecture, lighting, and art. Pillars lining the crypt fanned out into wide arcs they met the ceiling. Each one emitted a lantern-like glow that filled the crypt with soft orange light. The ceiling above them boasted a dazzling array of paintings in wide ovals.

The two boys meandered behind the main body of their party. Giacomo took a few moments to take in the scenery around them. But, boasting the attention span of an adolescent boy, he soon became bored. Nudging Stefano in the arm, he muttered under his breath the suggestion that the two of them ought to sneak off. However, his companion didn't hear him, his attention focused on the tour guide up front as they explained the baroque art style that adorned the ceiling above them.

After a while, they moved on. The guide let them out of the crypt to see the rest of the cathedral. Giacomo glanced over his shoulder at the crypt entrance as it shrank behind them. "Do you really think they've got that guy's bones in there?" he wondered.

Instead of answering, Stefano asked, "Why do they do that? Combine art with death?"

"You mean with all the paintings on the ceiling?" Giacomo shrugged. "It's fancy, I guess. Sacred."

"What do you think happens when we die?"

Giacomo gave a half-hearted laugh. "Stefano, why are you getting all existential on me?"

"It's just… being here, I guess." Stefano glanced up. Through windows, blades of light cut through the interior's dimness like knives. "I'm serious—what do you think happens?"

"When it's peaceful, I suppose it's like going to sleep," Giacomo answered. "And the good souls go to heaven while the bad ones go to hell. Why?"

Stefano shrugged. Before either of them could say anything else, a teacher called back to them, "Stay with the group, you two!" Both boys hurried their steps to keep up, leaving behind the ghost of their conversation.

* * *

"So," she said, and Stefano heard the soft flips as she perused through his portfolio. "Did you take _all_ of these?"

"Mm," Stefano responded absent-mindedly. He was sifting through the stack of mail in front of him, eyes peeled for one thing and one thing only. Beside him on the porch swing, Lucia slowly looked through his portfolio of photographs. Over the past year, they had gotten close, though Stefano only saw what was between them as strictly platonic. He was well aware of Giacomo's feelings for her, and respected his friend enough to not encroach in his territory. Besides, Lucia wasn't his type. She was quite, for lack of a better word, stupid. Her view of the world was child-like, and it was rather pitiable. At least she had her looks to carry her.

Stefano's hands stilled on a particular envelope. This one had the name of the magazine publisher on it. His heart skipped a beat at the sight. Quickly, he flipped the envelope over and tore open the flap. Beside him, Lucia hummed a generic tune.

The letter inside was folded into thirds. Opening it, Stefano quickly skimmed through the top lines.

 _Dear Mr. Valentini,_

 _Thank you for your submission._

Stefano felt his heart drop. He already knew where this was headed.

 _We recognize the talent, dedication, and time committed to your piece. However, we have received numerous submissions this year…_

He already knew they hadn't given a rat's ass about his piece, and didn't want to waste his time going through the rest of the rejection letter. It felt almost contrived when Lucia suddenly gave a loud, "Oh!" and provided a much-needed distraction. He looked over to see what had made the girl cry out.

She had stopped at a particular picture—an old one. The image was framed in a thick white border. Stefano recognized it as one from his dear old Spectra. That particular camera had retired long ago.

Lucia lifted the photograph and its protective sleeve up. It was of a boy leaning on ropes by the water with a smile on his face. "Is this Giacomo? Dio mio, when was taken? He looks so young!"

"Four years ago," Stefano recalled.

"So he's 12 in this picture?" Lucia paused to silently examine the picture. "He's cute in this."

"Oh?"

Lucia's eyes suddenly shot up. She planted a hand firmly down on the porch swing between them and leaned towards Stefano. "I didn't actually say that, okay? Don't tell anyone!" she yipped.

"You think Giacomo's cute?"

"I said in this picture!" Lucia replied defensively.

"It's okay if you like him. He's a good guy."

"Of course you would say that! You're his friend!" But Stefano didn't miss the smile she quickly fought down. "Anyway, I need to get home before Papa starts getting worried." She stood up and placed Stefano's portfolio onto the swing. Wagging a finger at him, Lucia reiterated, "I said _only_ in the picture," before hurrying down the porch steps.

The magazine issue with the contest winner was released two weeks later. Stefano was in his room, sitting at his desk with his feet propped up on the tabletop as he leafed through the pages. Giacomo was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and boredly throwing a tennis ball up and down.

Stefano found the picture, and immediately he pressed his lips together in stark displeasure. Really? This unsophisticated image was the one that trumped him? Stefano began to feel a deep, quiet rage bubble inside of him. Slowly, it was starting to manifest into something… something that was…

His eyes flickered to the left. When they settled on Giacomo, he felt the heat die down, flushed out by the conduit that was his friend. "Hey, Giacomo."

"Hmm?"

Stefano inverted the magazine and tossed it over to Giacomo. It hit his face with a satisfying _splat_. "Check it out," he said. "The winning picture."

Giacomo plucked the magazine from his face and flipped it over to the specific page. He took a few seconds to examine it. Then, to Stefano's satisfaction, gave a snort. "Ma dai? Is this it?"

"My thoughts exactly."

"But yours…" Giacomo trailed off with a sigh. "Whatever, man. Maybe you dodged a bullet here by not associated yourself with _these_ kind of publishers."

Leave it to Giacomo to tell him what he wanted to hear instead of the monkeys who had rejected his piece. "Ah," Stefano chimed as something quickly came to him. "Remember that picture I took of you a few years back? The one you showed your ma?"

"She still has it, you know."

"I kept a copy. Guess what?"

"Did that picture, with my stunning good looks, win a different contest?"

"Lucia saw it."

The tennis ball was coming down, but Giacomo's arm didn't move fast enough to catch it. It fell and hit the boy in the face. He flinched with a cry as the ball bounced away and rolled across the floor. Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Giacomo said, "She did?"

"Yeah." The magazine was closed and tossed aside on the desk. "You haven't asked her out yet?"

"It's not that simple," Giacomo replied, placing his feet down on the ground. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "You don't get it, Stefano. Between you and I, it's different. I'm a poor kid. Lucia won't want to go out with a guy who has holes in his pockets. You see the way she dresses?"

Stefano gave a hapless shrugged. "She liked the picture." Giacomo lifted his head.

"… She did?" he repeated.

"That's what I just said."

"I… I don't… okay."

"Just thought I'd let you know. Oh, she said not to tell, but… whoops." It wasn't like he would have kept his word anyway. He watched Giacomo stand up and walk across the room to retrieve the tennis ball, all the while stuck in ponderous silence.

* * *

It took about another month before they made it official, and when Giacomo told Stefano that he and Lucia were dating, Stefano wasn't the least bit surprised. Thankfully, the relationship didn't change Giacomo. He was still Stefano's friend.

Lucia, on the other hand, grew just a little more insufferable. She tried and tried to stick onto Giacomo like a barnacle, always insisting that the two of them do everything together. Giacomo was firm in keeping his space, and whenever he did Lucia would pout. But she would eventually give in, huffing, "You're lucky that you're cute!"

Despite that, they were always a sweet couple—it took a little less than year until Giacomo, that idiot, to bring up the notion of marriage to Stefano. Though Giacomo spoke of it lightly, Stefano saw that peculiar twinkle in his eye. He was truly in love.

"And when she tells me yes," Giacomo said, "the first people I'm telling are Mamma and you. You know, to give you enough time to get a nice suit. I want my best man looking top-notch, okay?"

Stefano rolled his eyes. "You somehow got even more stupid. I didn't even think that was possible." He was answered with a smack to the back of his head.

* * *

Springtime always brought with it warmer weather and annual panic among 18-year-olds who had reached the end of their secondary schooling. The maturity exam loomed like a beast in the horizon. The struggle was hard with the finish line already in view, but when the storm blew over the young adults of Salerno who had survived the onslaught celebrated during the following nights.

Lucia wanted to go out too, but Giacomo pointed out that she was still underage and couldn't go out to the bars with the rest of them. When she insisted, Giacomo joked that she hadn't struggled like the rest of them and therefore didn't earn the right. At that, she'd grown mad and ignored him for the rest of the day.

"Ah, she'll come around eventually. I'll reconcile things with her later. Tonight is _our_ night, buddy," Giacomo said, wrapping an arm around Stefano's shoulder and giving him a little shake. "Let's get fucked up and take over the world!"

Well, they made good on one of those promises. To be honest, Stefano had no recollection whatsoever of the subsequent night. All he knew was that he'd apparently spent the night with a girl named Romana because he was climbing out of her window the next morning. It hadn't been easy trying to make his way home in the early hours while hung over.

Those had been the good times—that short little limbo between adolescence and adulthood where they'd been free. But it didn't take long before they were once again swept down life's currents. And there were rocks. They couldn't see them—couldn't have known—because the rapids hid them.

From the moment he learned he had been accepted to art school, Stefano knew he and Giacomo had officially taken their first steps towards their separate paths. Part of him was regretful, nostalgic for the days that shouldn't have ended.

Then Giacomo told him the news. He was joining the army. The plane taking him to training was leaving in two days.

Army? To fight in wars? To again and again bear the risk of not coming home? Stefano couldn't fathom it.

"Come on, man," Giacomo said with a forced smile. "The federal aid was enough to have me stop working, but it was never going to take me to university." That smile faltered, but he held it back up. "And you know what the recruiters told me? I qualify for a death gratuity of 67.5 million liras with Mamma as my beneficiary. _Sixty seven and a half million_. She'd be set, Stefano."

"You do realize what needs to happen for that gratuity to get paid out, don't you?"

"I do," Giacomo replied. "But at least if I don't come home, I'll still have something to leave Mamma."

"Don't talk like that."

"I'm not going to run straight into the line of fire just to get the payout." Giacomo shook his head. "I know Mamma would rather have me than the money, but…" His eyes grew distant. "Sometimes I just get the feeling all I can do just isn't enough." The smile returned, as forced as ever. "Never mind. This is all if I survive training first. And what about you, _Signore University?_ Don't go getting too smart on me now."

"I'll try, but no guarantees." Stefano leaned on the roping that ran along the waterfront. The water sloshed against the walkway's posts. Just beneath the surface, the thin green strands of seaweed whipped with the current's pull. "How long are you going to be gone?"

"Basic is three and a half months," Giacomo answered. "After I graduate from that, I'm officially a soldier. I'll get a few days—a week at most—to visit home. Then it's advanced training after that, and then…" He trailed off with a shrug. "Who knows? And then they ship me out to where I'm needed, I guess."

"Have you told Lucia?"

"Not yet," Giacomo admitted. "Something tells me she won't be happy. I'm going to miss her too. I'm going to miss you all."

"It's just three and a half months," Stefano reminded him.

"You're right. And you'll be here when I get back?"

"Count on it."

Two days later, the two of them took that second step apart. At the terminal of Salerno Costa d'Amalfi Airport, Stefano saw Giacomo for the last time before he would leave for basic. Lucia had spent a good minute crying into his chest as Giacomo gently comforted her and tried to hint that he needed to go soon. When she finally collected herself, Giacomo turned to Stefano.

"Have fun at university, okay?" He gave Stefano's shoulder a rough pat. "Hey, but not too much fun. Keep snapping those picture, Camera Boy."

Stefano was on the cusp of calling Giacomo a colorful name, but quickly remembered that Giacomo's mother was also there. She hugged him tightly, while telling him, "Don't skip any of your meals, alright? Get enough sleep. Call me whenever they let you."

"I will, Mamme. And I'm sending every lira I make back here, so don't you worry."

"That's never what I worry about, Gia."

An announcement over the intercom announced that the plane was boarding. One of the nearby recruiters shouted for Giacomo to hurry. Pulling away from his mother, Giacomo whisked up his single duffel bag. "Bye, everyone! I'll see you in October! Hey!" Pointing at Stefano, he added, "Beers on the uni kid when I get back!"


	13. End of Innocence

Early October came around, bringing with it a long anticipated weekend. He had told Giacomo that he would be there, and Stefano was planning to keep his promise. As soon as he'd gotten back to his home in Salerno, not even an hour had passed when there was a knock at the door and a very antsy Lucia was standing on his porch.

"Giacomo's plane is going to touch down any _second_ now," she snapped the moment Stefano answered the door. Bless Lucia, the silly creature. She had actually dressed up for this—hairpins and all. "Hurry _up!_ "

Travel had worn him down, and he'd been hoping to at least sit down or something before being whisked off to the airport. "I haven't even changed yet."

"It's okay! You look fine!" Lucia replied impatiently. "What if the plane lands and Giacomo walks out of the gate only to find no one waiting for him? He'll think we forgot about him!"

"He won't," Stefano sighed. "I told him I'd be there to pick him up. Aye, Lucia, you sure know how to drive a man crazy."

Lucia giggled as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. "Oh really?" She sidled up to him, almost brushing against him had Stefano not drawn slightly back. He stared, not sure what to make of what had just happened. Had she…?

She seemed to sense his shock. "I'm just _messing_ with you," she snorted before stepping down the porch.

The man they had come to pick up was almost unrecognizable from the one they'd waved off a few months prior. Day after day in the sun had tanned his skin, and his golden brown locks had been cropped right down to his head.

And he had gotten _big_. When Giacomo clapped an arm around Stefano's shoulder, it actually hurt this time.

He'd been worried that time would erase what they had built up between them as kids. But that didn't happen. It felt just like old times when he heard Giacomo laugh as they met eyes. Lucia squealed and ran up to him. He hugged her and lifted her right off the ground.

"Oh mio!" Lucia purred when he set her down. "I've got a big burly man now."

Giacomo chuckled. "Yeah." He gave his chest a firm pat. "They tore me down and built me back up." As he ruffled Lucia's hair, he asked Stefano, "How've you been, Camera Boy?"

"Again, with that. Am I ever going to outgrow it?"

"Nope. It'll outlive you," Giacomo quipped. He patted Stefano on the back, nearly dislocating his shoulder. Stefano kept silent by clenching his jaw. "Dio, I'm _starving_. Let's get out of here."

The mama's boy in Giacomo surfaced when he arrived back at that tiny apartment. Even being a head and a half taller than his mother, Giacomo seemed to shrink back into a little boy when he hugged her. "Gia, cucciolo mio!" she cried joyfully. "You've grown so much in three months! Have you been eating well? Are you hungry?"

"Always!"

"Oh," the woman sighed as she withdrew from Giacomo. "That won't do. It's okay, Gia. Mamma will fix something right up for you. There, Stefano, don't be shy. Stay a while too."

He hesitated. Giacomo's mother always made it clear that he was welcomed under their roof. The hospitality, especially coming from someone who had so little to even keep to themselves, felt strange to him.

"I just got home," he muttered quietly. "Haven't unpacked yet."

"Come on, man!" Giacomo invited cheerily. "Listen to Mamma. It'll be the perfect time to catch up!

"Well…" Stefano said. "Alright."

"That's the spirit." Giacomo turned and called out to the doorway of the kitchen. "Hey—it alright if I call Lucia to come over too?"

There was no answer at first. Stefano was certain there was no way she hadn't heard Giacomo.

"Mamme?"

"Hmm?" came the response.

"Can Lucia come too?"

"Of course, Gia. Dinner will be ready in an hour."

"Take your time, Mamme." Turning back, Giacomo nodded towards the door. "Come on, let's step out and give her some space. God knows if we stay we'll run the risk of getting bowled over." Stefano followed him out of the front door. They went to the stairwell and sat on the top steps. For a while, they were silent as they let the last remaining wisps of unfamiliarity dissipate between them. Then, Giacomo was the first to speak.

"I'm glad to see things haven't changed with us," he admitted. "To be honest, I was worried." Stefano glanced at him. Giacomo's hands were laced together on top of his knees.

"Why?"

Giacomo gave a meaningless shrug. "That's just the natural course of life, I suppose," he said. "At basic, I got to talking with a lot of the other recruits. When conversation turned back to our childhoods, a lot of them admitted to dropping connections with their boyhood friends. Things they had in common as children disappeared when they got older. Hell, Stefano, look at us. You couldn't even use up one hand to count the things we've got in common." He finally looked up. "Guess I got to thinking maybe you'd find more people like you at uni, and it'd finally make you realize what a sod I was."

"Nah," Stefano dismissed. "It's full of pompous personalities that drive me up the wall. One thing I've really learned, Giacomo, is that honesty is a rare thing. If there's an opportunity to get ahead or save face, it's the first thing to go."

"Yeah," Giacomo agreed grimly. He let his hands drop from one another, and then in a brighter voice said, "How do we always manage to get so somber? Fuck that, man. How are the girls at university? Have any caught your eye?"

"Sure," he replied. "I've seen a few that made me think to myself, 'she could pull off a close-up really well.'"

Giacomo laughed. "Damn, you're a geek. You better step out from behind the camera once in a while or you're going to die a virgin."

"You should have used that joke when you had the chance," Stefano countered. "Last spring was when that chance expired."

"Oh? After the Maturità?"

"Yup. Romana."

"No fucking way it was Romana." Giacomo scoffed. "She always struck me as the 'waiting until marriage' girl. How did you even manage to pull that off?"

"I don't really remember." At all.

"Well…" Giacomo leaned towards him, holding a fist up to be bumped. "Here's the congrats that came a few months after the fact, but better late than never."

Stefano glanced quizzically down at Giacomo's fist and awkwardly tapped it with his own. "I think you're making it a bigger deal than it actually is."

"I probably am," Giacomo agreed. "Sorry, I guess the mindset at basic polluted mine a bit. You think you have big personalities at uni? Try a training camp some time—just a cluster of testosterone, sweat, and pent-up… you know. The only women for miles around were on printed pages in magazines you'd never let your mamma catch you with. Speaking of which…" Giacomo whapped his hand against Stefano's arm. What the fuck, even that hurt. "Those were taken with cameras. Next time you lift yours up, think about doing your fellow brothers a solid, huh?"

That would be… ugh. Stefano knew Giacomo was only joking, but a part of him prickled at his words. "I'd rather not let my pieces only serve to titillate," he mumbled. "If the model I'm working with wants to take off her top, more freedom to her just so long as it doesn't ruin the composition I have in mind."

"I hear ya. But hey, when that happens you let me be the first to know, okay?"

"Lucia would kill you."

"She would." There was a pause, and then Giacomo groaned loudly and leaned back, holding a hand over his stomach. "Man's _starving_ out here! Look at me, Stefano! I'm turning into skin and bones!"

"Dio mio, I can count your ribs," Stefano replied sarcastically. If Giacomo was only skin and bones, then Stefano was the goddamn prime minister of Italy.

Giacomo planted a hand down on the stairs and pushed himself onto his feet. "I should probably get Lucia before it gets dark. I don't know why she insisted on making a trip home—probably to change her dress for the fourteenth time. Well, whatever the lady wants. In the meantime, can you see if Mamma needs help?"

"Sure." He wasn't sure what kind of help he was going to be, exactly. All of his previous offers to help Giacomo's mother in the kitchen were always shot down. She didn't seem to want anyone encroaching in her territory, where apparently she took on the spirit of a testy Rottweiler.

As he stepped inside, Stefano could hear the bumping of pots and pans, the bubbling of things, and the heat and aromas drifting from the kitchen.

"Giacomo?" the woman called out from the kitchen.

"No, ma'am, it's me."

"Ah, Stefano." There was a sudden pause where the shuffling of feet stopped. And then, Giacomo's mother said, "Do you mind… do you mind if we talk? Step in here, caro."

Stefano walked into the kitchen, but lingered near the doorway. He placed his hands behind his back and leaned against the wall, pinning them in between. "Has Giacomo gone to get Lucia?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

She stopped, finally turning away from the stove. Pulling a tea towel from the pocket of her stained apron, she dragged it across her damp forehead. "I'm worried about Giacomo," she confessed. The trouble clouded her eyes. "I… I don't know what to do."

Stefano swallowed nervously before asking, "What's wrong? Are you…?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Giacomo's mother said quickly. "This is… about Lucia." She brought the towel up to her forehead again. Stefano wasn't sure if it was the heat trapped in this small kitchen, or the stress of their conversation, but he was starting to perspire a little too. "Giacomo really cares about her, and that's why I don't know what to do."

"What is it?" The tension was killing him.

Giacomo's mother squeezed her hands together. "A few weeks ago," she began, "I was out when I saw that girl—she was walking out of a movie theatre, holding hands with another boy. I was across the street, so she didn't see me, but…" Stefano saw that her fingers were practically digging into her own skin. "I'm his mother, Stefano. Of course I jumped to conclusions. But I was so shocked, I let them walk away. Maybe…" The distress was painted all over her face. "Maybe I should have confronted them and demanded to know what was going on. But now, I can't bring myself to do it in front of Giacomo. He's only here for a week before he's gone again. Stefano, do you think I'm over-reacting? Reading things wrong? From what I saw, all they did was hold hands."

If that was all they did… Stefano wasn't sure, and part of him wished he had remained ignorant. It was a hard call to make. Culturally, handholding was something that friends often did—both of the same and opposite sexes. Still, he thought back to that moment when he and Lucia had been on his porch earlier that day.

Confirming the distraught woman's fears seemed like the right thing to do, but it was also the harder choice. She was right—Giacomo was only here for a blink. Stefano was only here for a weekend, and this had been meant to be a fun, relaxing one.

"It's probably fine." He was comfortably numb as the words came out of his mouth. "Lucia cares about Giacomo just as much as he does her… it's fine."

"I… I think you're right," Giacomo's mother said. "Yes… thank you, Stefano. You've always been a good friend to Giacomo. I can't tell you how grateful I am." She smiled a deep, warm smile, but all it did was make Stefano uncomfortable. "That's an incredible weight off my back. Now, what was I doing? Oh!" The woman cried out as she turned back to the stove. " _Che roba,_ I nearly let this burn! Go sit down, caro. You've traveled a long way."

* * *

It's probably fine.

Funny how things swept under the rug eventually made their way back out. It was almost as if they always waited for the most opportune moment.

After that week, Giacomo went back to training and Stefano went back to university. Both of them once again left Salerno behind, and it was as if things had gone back to the way they were supposed to be. He and Giacomo kept loosely in touch, and was how Stefano found out Giacomo had finished advanced training, had been assigned to a brigade, and was heading overseas on his first mission.

Before leaving, Giacomo had assured Stefano that he would be fine. The assignment wasn't that bad—just a bit of surveillance. Direct combat was only foreseen the in the worst case scenario, and the chances of that were low. There were wars being fought overseas, yes, but none demanded their country's direct involvement. Giacomo's brigade was only being sent over as part of Italy's contribution to NATO's efforts.

"I'll be deployed for 12 months," Giacomo told him. "But I get two weeks of leave, and you bet I'm coming home for that." When winter came around, Giacomo was one of the lucky ones whose two weeks sent him home for Christmas.

The festivities. The familiarity of home. The reunions. It was supposed to be a happy two weeks. But the things under the rug came out.

Giacomo hadn't told anyone but Stefano that he was coming home. He wanted to surprise everyone else.

Stefano got back to Salerno a day after Giacomo did. When he stopped by the apartment, Giacomo wasn't there and his mother was in tears. She told Stefano that Giacomo had been gone all day and begged him to go find him.

He did. Stefano walked around the city as he'd done as a boy. It was bitterly cold, but that didn't matter to him. With each passing minute, the pounding in his chest worsened.

He found Giacomo by the water, sitting on the wharf where the boats were. He reeked of alcohol.

 _Lucia saw it_. Those had been his own words, hadn't they? Ones Stefano had spoken—no one else. The catalyst that led up to this. It was all because of him.

Giacomo had come home in secret, hoping to surprise her. It'd be romantic—another way to show her how much he loved her. Instead, he'd found her in the arms of another man. What was done was done, and none of the excuses Lucia had sputtered out after tearing herself away from her lover mattered. And that had just been the tip of the iceberg. After more shouting, more arguing and hurtful words, Giacomo learned this hadn't been the first time.

Stefano only knew about all this in the days after. When he saw Giacomo on the wharf, all he had were his worrying premonitions. And the moment their eyes finally met, a look of fury like none Stefano had ever seen crossed his friend's face.

He was up on his feet in an instant. "This whole time!" Giacomo roared. Stefano realized he was crying. " _Why?_ I love her!" He wavered, staggered, and quickly caught himself. "Is there any man in town who _hasn't_ had their hands all over my Lucia by now? And you?" Stefano felt his heart drop when those eyes, filled with anguish and rage, turned back to him. "Have you been fucking her behind my back too?"

"Never." His voice was quiet. "I would never do that to you." Stefano was scared—an honest, gut-wrenching fear. He was afraid he had lost Giacomo. There were very few things he genuinely cared about in his life, but please, don't let him lose this one.

 _"How can I trust you?"_

Trust was all they had. He thought it'd been enough. And if it wasn't? "I don't… I don't know," Stefano stammered, fear beating a rhythm in his chest. He was talking too fast. "I can't prove it to you, but you're my brother, Giacomo. I would never. Y-you know this."

Giacomo was breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Suddenly, the rage seemed to drain out of him. What it left behind was lifeless and broken. "I have to trust you." Giacomo reached out to hold onto the railing and sink to the cold ground. "I have to… Because if I don't, I'll…" His words gave away to uncontrollable tears. He curled up and buried his head in his arms.

 _I did this_ , Stefano realized. _I let this happen to him_. He stepped slowly over to Giacomo and sat by him. _All he ever was, was my friend. Always_.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this happened." Giacomo wouldn't answer him. "I wish… I could do something. Something more than this—just sitting here. But it's all I can do, so I'll do it. I'm here, Giacomo, for as long as you need me to be. Okay? I'll still be here. And when the smoke clears, I'll be here too."

Slowly, Giacomo lifted his head. He turned towards Stefano and suddenly hugged him tightly. "What do I do from here?"

He froze, and then slowly put an arm around Giacomo. "I don't know," Stefano said. "Get fucked up and take over the world?"

Giacomo gave a dry, emotionless laugh. "Yeah," he said. "I'm halfway there already."

"And you're not going any further," Stefano said. "Your ma is already worried, and I'll be damned if I have to carry your sorry ass home."

"Ah, fuck." Giacomo scrubbed his wet faced. "Mamma—she's definitely worried, isn't she? Fuck." He took a deep breath, and continued, "Help me sober up. I just need a few minutes." Giacomo was definitely going to need more than a few minutes. Stefano wasn't sure just how much he'd tried to drown himself with, but if the state of him now was any indication… And it was freezing. Giacomo had the alcohol to numb him down, but Stefano was completely vulnerable to the chilly, seaside air. It didn't matter. He had made a promise.

Lucia… all this time. Stefano felt sick with anger. He quickly told himself she wasn't worth it—it was Christmas, after all. He and Giacomo were home and together. There had been a life before her, and there sure as hell was going to be one after.

The currents had hidden the rocks.

* * *

Two years seemed to go by ridiculously quick. It was funny how the nearing of graduation coincided with a declining will to live. Stefano took a week's trip to France, where he found some much-needed inspiration at the Louvre. Then he took a train a few hours south to Lyon, using the scenery and people there for a class project. Things were quiet. Life had finally settled down neatly enough to where he began to wonder which direction he ought to take his. To be honest, and he didn't know why, he was starting to get bored with the way things were. There was something missing, and he couldn't quite put a finger on what.

At the end of the term, Stefano finally decided to head back home. He hadn't gone back to Salerno in two years, not since that Christmas.

Home never did feel the same again. Maybe the coastal city had its comforts once when he was a child, but that had faded. Stefano was almost done with school, and after that—it was all uncharted territory. He wanted to be an artist. He wanted to be recognized. He just didn't know how. Not yet, anyway.

Stefano went home and spent some time with his parents—people he'd always been told he should care about but never quite could. They lacked vision, and they never supported him as they should have. But let it not be said he never made an effort.

He went to that other part of the city, to the small apartment where Giacomo's mother was. The woman had become as much a mother to him as his own. She greeted him warmly as she always did. She asked him about school, if it was going well. If he had found a girlfriend yet. And instead of asking if he'd gotten a job yet like Mamma, she asked about his works.

"You're a talented boy," she told him. "Someday, you'll be famous." That was the hope. But it took more than just hope to make it reality. Still, her words made him happy. He asked her how she was doing. Giacomo's mother smiled and used that tone Stefano knew all too well—the one a mother used when trying to pretend all was well to her child. "I'm perfectly well," she said. "Been getting by just fine, waiting for Giacomo to come home. He's being a strong young man in another country, but he'll always have a mamma to come home to. That's the promise I keep to him." She sighed, and as she did her hand bumped against a pencil that was on the table. It rolled right over the edge and clattered on the floor. Giacomo's mother frowned and looked down. It had fallen right in front of her. In fact, it should have been the first thing she saw when she looked down. Instead, the woman's eyes continued to helplessly scan the floor. "Oh…" she muttered softly under her breath.

"Right there. Let me." Stefano scooted his chair back to pick it up. He held the pencil out for her. Her hand missed it at first before taking it.

"Thank you, caro."

"Are…?" The question couldn't leave his lips. Instead, he let his hand drop.

It worried him. He knew there was nothing that could be done. People got old. But when it was a parent, that truth was too hard to face. She wouldn't ever admit what was happening to her to Stefano, nor would she ever accept any money to have her eyes get the treatment they needed. Stefano knew all this already, even if the woman was adamant on keeping it a secret—and she did so to save him from the grief. Then, a few days later, there was a phone call to Giacomo's mother. Her son had been shot.

It was Giacomo himself who was on the other end of the line to tell her. He was wounded, but he would pull through. There was more to the news—he was coming home on convalescent leave to recover. The hospital commander had given him 25 days.

Both of them, back in Salerno after two years. It'd taken a bullet fired into Giacomo's gut to finally bring them back together. Stefano was there at the airport. He saw his friend come rolling in on a wheelchair and couldn't help but laugh. Giacomo told him to shut up.

At first, he was mainly bed-ridden. Stefano spent a long while sitting in his room while they passed the time chatting. And in those moments, he was reminded of the days that had been like this.

"For three weeks I wasn't allowed to put a single thing in my stomach," Giacomo told him. "They stuck a giant needle into me and fed me directly through a tube. I tell you—it was my own personal hell." He chuckled. "But hey, at least the nurse was cute."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Nah, man. Most of the time when she was around, I was too hopped up on pain meds to even get a word out." Giacomo paused. "Aren't you supposed to be at university? Did you come all the way back for me?"

"I'm on break," Stefano said. "And next term is my last."

"You're graduating? Hell, time really flew, didn't it?"

Stefano shrugged. It had, but he didn't want to admit it.

"What are you planning to do afterwards?"

"I really have no idea."

"Well," Giacomo said. "We're still young. Plenty of time to figure it out."

It was Stefano's idea that, once Giacomo was able to stand on his own two feet, they take a trip up to the university just to do a little sightseeing. Giacomo liked the idea. "I'll get to see what your everyday was like," he told Stefano. They took a train up north to Rome. When they arrived on campus, it was, predictably, empty with just a few stragglers and tour groups going around. Trees grew in groves around the grounds, throwing shade over the pale stone walkways. Beige buildings were tinted yellowish on their angular roofs by the afternoon sun, growing darker in gradient to their bases. Giacomo pointed out just how many statues there were on campus, and Stefano agreed with a chuckle.

Stefano recognized a few people and stopped to say hi, taking the opportunity to introduce Giacomo. They noticed his cropped hair and bulky frame underneath the linen shirt, and asked if he was in the army. When he confirmed, their eyes grew wide with excitement. Stefano immediately knew what they were thinking. To them, Giacomo was _exotic_. Some strange person to be marveled, like a thing in an exhibit. A gladiator in the Colosseo.

A few of them were insensitive enough to ask Giacomo if he had ever killed anyone. Immediately, a look crossed over his face—one Stefano had trouble reading. Then, in a very quiet voice, Giacomo replied, "I did whatever I had to do to protect my team." Abruptly, he said, "Nice meeting you," and quickly turned away.

They didn't think much of it. Stefano hurried after Giacomo, who had slowed down enough for him to catch up in a few steps. With his hands buried deep in his pockets, Giacomo stared forward. "Hey, sorry about that."

"It's no big deal," Giacomo replied. "A lot of people don't know what it's like."

Stefano paused. "What… is it like?"

Giacomo turned back to him. "Not like this," he said, pulling hand out of his pocket to gesture around. "Not shady and pristine with green trees all around. Not where you can stroll around and feel safe. And it's not even like I expected it to be, Stefano. It—."

Suddenly, there was a loud bang. It was likely a car backfiring or someone slamming the back of a truck too hard. Stefano had heard it countless times and knew exactly what it was, but something immediately flooded Giacomo's eyes. He had heard something else entirely. He moved so fast Stefano didn't even have time to comprehend what was going on. The sound of Giacomo's voice shouting, _"Get down!"_ flooded his ears. The next thing he knew, his body had hit the ground and Giacomo was pinning him down.

It all lasted for a few seconds, but it was an eternity in Stefano's mind. He was stunned and confused, and his back hurt where it had slammed onto the ground. Giacomo quickly got off of him, holding an arm over his stomach. He was breathing heavily. "Stefano, I'm sorry, I… I didn't hurt you, did I?" People nearby had stopped to stare.

"I'm fine," Stefano grunted as he sat up. He reached back and patted the dirt off his back. "Are you okay, Giacomo? What was that?"

"Sorry… sorry." Giacomo shook his head and pushed himself onto his feet. He held his hand out and pulled Stefano back up. Stefano waited for him to go on, but all Giacomo did was stand there in silence with his arm wrapped protectively over his stomach.

"It's okay. I get it." He knew what Giacomo must have heard in lieu of an innocent sound.

"You don't," Giacomo suddenly muttered. The hand over his abdomen clenched. "Stefano." His voice was deathly quiet. "I don't want to go back. But I have to. It's my duty."

"What do you mean?"

"People…" Each word was articulated slowly. Painfully. "Don't know what it's _like_. I'm scared, Stefano. They call me a soldier, but I'm only a kid. When I got shot at, when I got _hit_ , I was awake the whole time. I couldn't even move and I knew exactly what was happening. I thought I was going to die, and all I could do was cry for Mamma. I… I'm just a kid, Stefano. I should have gone to university like all the other kids, but this was the life written out for me."

Always, Giacomo had seemed nothing but proud of being in the army—being the hero. The soldier who loved his country. But this…

Giacomo was right. Stefano didn't know what it was like.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: "It was funny how the nearing of graduation coincided with a declining will to live." This sentence came straight out of my soul.**_


	14. Awakened

People don't know what it's like.

What is it like, Giacomo?

He wanted Giacomo to tell him, to _really_ tell him. But he didn't know what that would do to him, and so he let the question die unspoken.

Who had that man been back at the university grounds? The one who had spoken so quietly, so fearfully? Had that been the real Giacomo?

Whoever he was, Stefano never saw him again. Instead, there was only the man who kept his wide shoulders squared, his smile bright, and his laugh even brighter. It was the friend he had grown used to, the one that it was easy to be around.

Towards the end of Giacomo's convalescent leave, Stefano gave him something—a locket, albeit an unusual one. Instead of a flat pendant that could be opened, this one had a tube about the length and girth of a finger.

"Doesn't even hold enough for a shot," Giacomo joked after examining it.

Stefano sighed. "Just open it up." Giacomo unscrewed the tube and tipped its contents onto his palm. A rolled up photograph fell out. Stefano watched Giacomo unravel it. As his eyes fell onto the image, they brightened and he snorted loudly. "Dammit, Stefano, we're babies in this!"

Well, not exactly. But the picture had been taken six years ago, and it'd felt like a lifetime since then. It was of the two of them—two happy-go-lucky teenagers without a care in the world. Before they had been taken down the rapids.

"Look at this! I had hair!" He reached up and ran a hand over the short fuzz that covered his head. Then, he grew quiet. "Wish I could go back to those days," Giacomo said, still gazing down at the picture.

"At the very least, now you'll have a piece of it to carry around with you."

"What a _poet_ ," Giacomo replied sarcastically, rolling the picture back up and fitting it into the tube. "Maybe you should have ditched the camera and become Italy's very own Shakespeare, huh?"

"I've certainly got the head for it, don't I?"

"Ha, if you start spouting sonnets, I swear I'll put a hole in the wall with my head."

"You've certainly got the head for—." Unfortunately, the rest of Stefano's sentence never got the chance to be spoken as Giacomo quickly put him in a headlock—one he had deemed to be "gentle." Yeah, gentle maybe if people were made out of steel instead of soft tissue.

Jovialness eventually faded into a deep-seated sadness when Giacomo left. There was something final about this goodbye. Maybe it was because after he'd graduate, Stefano's last ties to Salerno would break. He'd have to leave home for that recognition he yearned for—it wouldn't come by staying chained to this city.

 _If I want that fame_ , he told himself, _I'm going to have to leave some things behind._ Even the things that mattered. _I'm sorry, Giacomo. But you knew I wasn't meant to just always wait at the airport for you._

The journey wasn't easy, and his first steps were forced to be small. But eventually, the traction accumulated and left Stefano pleased that he was on the right track. Someone close to the president evidentially saw his pieces and liked the way he handled a camera. After a few exchanges, a few handshakes, and a few signatures scribbled across the bottoms of contract pages, Stefano had become the personal photographer to Italy's leader.

The work had its pros and cons. Stefano could no longer count how many times the president's personal security had rifled through his camera bag. Really, what did they think he was going to do? He was a man dedicated to his craft, and the fact that they suspected him of wrongdoing like some kind of criminal was rather insulting. But at least he had been given a badge he could flash at them to let him through to where the president was. Meanwhile the reporters, with their hungry cameras, were pushed back. Damn, did those moments feel good.

But this was not art. He wasn't allowed to be an artist. His compositions were governed entirely by those he worked for—the president and his PR assistants. Catch the president in his critical moments. Make him look good—strong—for the nation to see. And not just that—the world, too. His photographs would be evaluated, and the ones that met his employers' stringent criteria would get the green light to be published while the rest were barred from seeing the light of day.

Sure, it was an exalted position among photographers. It was an immediate signal, saying "You. You're worthy." He got to travel whenever the president did, and in the same fashion. First class—not bad. No one would pass up a bit of luxury. But Stefano felt that he had become as much a PR lackey as those who actually bore the title.

The president himself—he wasn't half bad. He was a man who knew what it took to be a world leader. He knew how to hold himself, how to look when there were eyes on him, which made Stefano's job a little easier.

It was after the conclusion of the press release when Stefano found himself with a chance to speak to the president directly. The Q&A session had ended, and security had cleared the room. They were just about to shoo Stefano out too when the president suddenly stopped them. He motioned for them to give the two a bit of space, but they still lingered on the other side of the conference room.

"Valentini," he addressed. "I don't think you've heard a word of appreciation from me for your hard work this past year. Let me voice it now—you've done a fine job. I don't think I'd look half as good as I do now without you."

"You're too kind, sir."

"Oh, no need for such modesty, son. Your youth belies a deep-rooted skill." He crossed his arms and surveyed Stefano with those eyes—those that seemed to have seen so much and so little at the same time. "I've heard that you're a Salerno boy. My brother met his wife there, you know."

"It's a beautiful city."

"Indeed. Nothing breaks a man's heart more than having to leave a beautiful home behind." He let a slow breath out through his nose. Stefano, not knowing how to pass the awkward silence, looked down and fiddled idly with his camera. "Well, Valentini, what did you think of today's address? Enough to appease the masses?" He snorted. "What am I saying? Nothing appeases the masses—I've been in office long enough to know that. Still, what did you think?"

The press conference today had been about Italy's overseas activity. Stefano couldn't help but feel it was fate that he had found himself in this moment—one where the president was asking Stefano's opinion about something he had a personal interest in. Trying to downplay the moment, Stefano gave a small shrug—more of a twitch of his shoulders—and said, "I guess I just wonder the same as the reporters. When are the soldiers coming home?"

"Have a friend or family member overseas?"

"A friend, yes."

"I see. Then you must've had one ear sharp while you were snapping those pictures today. I can only repeat what I said in the conference: it's uncertain when we can bring those men back. Things are heating up. We've officially made a stance in Afghanistan, and our country can't back down now." He patted Stefano's shoulder, an empathetic look on his face. "I wish your friend the best."

"Thank you, sir."

He stayed in the room while the president and his security left, camera still clutched in his hand. It had been over a year since he had spoken to Giacomo. In that empty room, nostalgia suddenly crept against his skin. Why was he here?

 _Because I want to be,_ he suddenly insisted to himself. _Because it's time I move on and don't look back._

* * *

Verona—the city of romance, as seen by the rest of the world. After all, Shakespeare had chosen this riverside city to be the setting for the tale of his infamous lovers, Romeo and Juliet. But this city was just the same as any in Italy—thriving with culture, yes, but filled with people just trying to go about their everyday lives. And romance itself was just an everyday thing, really.

Life had brought Stefano here, though in hindsight perhaps the threads of destiny had had some part to play instead. He was on the cusp of concluding his contracted term with the president, and was already branching off to do other work. Work that more suited his tastes. A wealthy Frenchman had hired Stefano to take anniversary pictures of him and his wife during their stay in Verona. He'd given Stefano free rein to go wherever he pleased with the compositions. The freedom was refreshing.

These two—they were old enough to be his parents, though the signora had found ways to keep herself glamorous despite her climbing age. Her husband, however, looked as though the age gap between the two was stretched a little farther than the norm. _You can get away with quite a bit with deep pockets_ , Stefano mused to himself.

Even though it was his job to capture the quintessential moments of their anniversary, the couple hadn't hired Stefano to constantly follow them around. Thus, one quiet evening, Stefano found his schedule quite empty and took the time to stroll through the city. He was still in his work clothes—a gray, single-breasted waistcoat and blue tie.

Stefano was passing by the open patio of a café, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, when he heard a familiar voice exclaim, "Oi! _Stefano?"_

He stopped. Who'd be calling out his name here? His eyes fell on the one who was running up to him. Immediately, he recognized her. But by God…

Lucia had become beautiful—an absolute stunner. These past three years had been very good to her, sanding away the last traces of youthfulness into the curves and swells of a woman like an expert sculptor. And just the sight of her had nostalgia strike him like a train. Then he remembered, and he kept silent as she stopped in front of her.

She knew, and immediately her face became sheepish. "I know how you must think of me," she said. "And I'm so sorry—I was stupid, I'll admit that. But we were kids, Stefano, and I'm… I'm just glad to see you again."

"I'm glad to see you too, Lucia." It was strange how automatic those words were. And oh how it made Lucia's face light up, like she thought they were actually true. "Long time no see. What are you doing in Verona?"

"I could ask you the same thing!" Lucia replied. "Though I suppose it's because you're so important and all." At the puzzled look that crossed Stefano's face, she continued, "I saw it in the paper, that little caption underneath the picture of the president— _'taken by staff photographer Stefano Valentini.'_ I know that name, I told myself when I read it. So you're cozy with il presidente, huh? You're popping the corks out of prosecco bottles with a new supermodel every night, aren't you?"

"No, Lucia, that's just silly," Stefano sighed. "I'm a photographer, not an actor or something."

"Yeah, yeah," Lucia giggled. "You haven't changed a bit." She held her hands behind her back and swayed gently. Fuck, she was cute. "So what's the occasion?"

"Hmm?"

"You look like you're dressed for a wedding." She nodded towards him, a lock of her hair falling over her shoulder. Stefano looked down at his vest. "Someone you know getting married in Verona?"

"No, just trying to keep it professional at work."

"Oh." Her voice curled flirtatiously. Lucia peered at him with those pale blue eyes. "Hey," she said, "did you want to, maybe, get coffee tomorrow? And just… I don't know, catch up?"

 _No_ , something in him said. _Say no._ "Sure."

Lucia's face brightened. "Great," she said. "There's a cute little place right on the river—I think you'll really like it."

* * *

Coffee shops held their own little bubbles of magic—the way the espresso machines perfumed the air. And then there were the undertones of candied fragrances, the syrups and sweet toppings to be added to the drinks to take the edge off the bitterness.

Lucia was there, dressed in a bright yellow sundress. A picture of innocence. She sat down across from him at the small, metal lattice table. They chatted idly for a few minutes, skimming over how life was currently treating them. Lucia had apparently taken up a modeling gig—doing fashion shoots for a designer's latest styles. It didn't surprise Stefano at all. A studio director would've had to be blind or stupid to turn a girl like Lucia away.

A server came with their coffees, setting the drinks down first before tucking small silver spoons on their saucers and leaving. Lucia immediately took up her spoon, swirling it inside her coffee. It had been saturated to a light, creamy tan—more a milk drink with a touch of coffee in it, Stefano thought.

"And I've met this other model," Lucia said. She paused to take a sip out of her cup. "An American girl—she's wonderful. Oh, you should see her when she's in front of the camera, Stefano. I'm a little jealous."

"Sounds interesting. I'd like to see that."

"I can introduce you some time," Lucia offered. "But…" She giggled. "She already has a boyfriend, okay? Don't get in over your head."

"That's not what I meant. What's her name?"

"Emily Lewis. But whatever—we're getting off track. This moment is supposed to be about _us_."

Stefano was caught off guard. "Us?" he echoed.

"Yeah, you and me. Catching up—that's what I said, remember? The 'how do you do's and 'how have you been's?"

"I thought that's what we just did."

"Well, just _barely."_ Suddenly, Lucia scooted forward in her seat. Stefano had a feeling the real reason she had gotten him out here was about to surface. "So, um, how's Giacomo?"

Ah. He should have known. Poor Lucia—she never did learn, did she? "Don't know," Stefano answered. "Haven't spoken to him in a while."

"Is he still, you know, out?"

"Yeah."

"Are you two still friends?"

The question made Stefano pause. He took a second to deliberate. "Not like we used to be," he admitted quietly.

"Oh." Lucia's response made him look up. He could have been imagining it, but had she sounded… satisfied?

The rest of the conversation steered away from Giacomo and back to Stefano. He answered her questions, trying to keep the frown out of his face as he watched her. What was she playing at?

When the coffee was finished, they left the little riverside café. Over the next few days, Lucia took Stefano to the studio a couple of times. There, he met Emily. The sight of the dark-haired beauty flooded his mind with a flurry of ideas, creations screaming to be composed. Art that just _couldn't_ be left unmade. It nearly made him lightheaded in that moment. Lucia saw that look in his eyes, and her brow furrowed.

It took just another second for Stefano to regain his composure. He shook Emily's hands with some cordial words spoken in English. She laughed airily and told him that his accent was delightful. Lucia quickly interrupted the two of them to ask Emily how her boyfriend was doing.

Always, there was a part of Stefano's mind that wondered where this was going. And it didn't just wonder—it seethed. After those few days, and after introducing him to Emily, Lucia began suggesting they get together more often. Stefano warned her that he wasn't staying in Verona for long. She brushed it off, saying there was still time.

Time for what?

It was what that part of his mind wondered that evening when they went out for drinks—the kind that preluded an intimate night. They chatted. They laughed. Lucia challenged him to take a shot of Amaro Montenegro, and he wasn't about to pass it down. Then, he followed it up with a cognac cocktail. The buzz Stefano got from his drink loosened him up and quieted that part of his mind. Then Lucia pointed out that it was getting late and they ought to take off. So they left the bar together, still chatting. Still laughing. They walked down a street, surrounded by the few night owls that were still out and about. Cars passed on the road next to them, reduced to nothing but blurred shapes behind glaring headlights. In the distance, the hotel loomed over the heads of the buildings around it.

Suddenly, on that dark street, Lucia stopped. Stefano did too. The girl turned to him. "Don't take me back home," she said. "Take me to your hotel room."

"What?"

"I know you want to." Her breath smelled fruity and alcoholic. "You were just waiting for me to say it, weren't you? Well, I'm saying it. I've always wanted you, Stefano. Even when we were kids."

He couldn't understand what he was hearing. "But… you were dating Giacomo."

"Because you never went after me, and he did." She took a step towards him. Her face was too close. Too close. "I called him cute, but you were too. You still are." She was so pretty.

That part of his mind stirred awake.

"Lucia—."

"Kiss me, Stefano." She leaned towards him.

He caught her by the shoulders before she could reach him. "You never cared about Giacomo?"

"It's not like that," Lucia said. "I'm in love with _you."_

 _But he loved you! With all his heart! And you broke him—more than you realize, because you never saw him on that wharf! Every man you had between your legs was another blow to him, and you—you almost had me added to that collection, you vile bagascia!_

His hands, still clutching Lucia's shoulders, squeezed down. "Lucia," he said softly. "I lied."

"Stefano? What are you doing?" Her eyes were wide. She reached up and took his wrists, trying to pull his hands away. A smile, nearly maniacal, curled his lips. Lucia looked scared, and it only served to make her look even more beautiful.

"I told you Giacomo and I weren't close anymore, but that…" He let his words end in an airy scoff before continuing, "was a lie. Giacomo is still as much my friend as he was when we were young, and I…" He leaned forward, letting his lips come intimately close to Lucia's ear. His eyes flickered up past her head, watching the pair of blinding lights come closer. Softly, he finished, "I'd kill for him."

He stepped forward, letting their bodies touch for just one second—one sweet, sweet second—before he pushed his arms forward and shoved her.

In that subsequent second, it was a shame he had no camera to capture the absolute splendor he saw. But at least he had his eyes to take in the breathtaking moment. Lucia was a picture of perfection as she fell back. The illumination from the headlights embellished each strand of copper hair thrown out around her terror-lit face. Her eyes were wide with desperate confusion as her body flew helplessly back in the path of the car—the harbinger of her doom. It was too much. It was so good.

It was art.

The screech of brakes split the air, followed by a satisfactory thud. Shrieks peppered the night, and people rushed to that segment of the sidewalk to behold the tragedy. Horror was shared in all faces but one as they looked out to the girl on the road.

She was on the news that morning. News anchors with grave faces explained the story of a young woman who had been struck by a vehicle in the early hours of that day. She had been rushed to the hospital. Based on the last update that had been released, her condition had been stabilized, though she had yet to wake up.

Stefano was worried. He didn't know what had come over him that night. It had been seductive, overpowering. It had filled every vein in his body until he was almost sure that it _was_ him. But it wasn't him… was it?

Whether it was or wasn't, Lucia had seen it. And now she was safe inside the hospital where he couldn't reach her. Wait, had he really just considered finishing her off? That was… that was the thinking of a lunatic! A psychotic killer! Not him—he was just a man. An artist. Really! That was it! _That was it!_

He needn't have worried about Lucia. Justice caught up to him even before she had the chance to open her eyes. It was that very afternoon when police were knocking on his hotel door and escorting him out. At the detention center, Stefano learned that the driver of the car that hit Lucia had identified him. He'd told the police that he had seen a man with black hair in a gray vest push the girl into the road. They had gone to the bar and interviewed the bartenders, who all confirmed Lucia had been with a man who fit that description. They procured one of the receipts he had signed, and the police were able to easily get a name from the neat penmanship—Stefano Valentini. The rest was history.

Stefano responded to the questions made by the police by saying that the story had been warped to put the blame on him. He said that he had been walking Lucia home. She had gone past her limit at the bar. When she stumbled off the curb and into the road, he'd tried to do all he could to save her but the car was moving too fast. The hospital would have confirmed that Lucia had been intoxicated that night, corroborating Stefano's story. He knew this when he saw the uncertain look cross the officer's face.

It was the driver's word against Stefano's. Both were detained while the police continued their investigation. It was on the second day that Lucia woke up. But lady luck was on Stefano's side—Lucia had no recollection of that night whatsoever.

Still, Stefano had been careless. The police were pulling in witnesses to interview, and it was only a matter of time before they'd find out which story was the truth. The clock was ticking and all Stefano could do was sit and wait.

Then, one day, the impossible happened.

Stefano heard voices out at the front of the police station. Two men were talking, and their voices grew louder as they moved towards the back of the detainment center. Stefano could just make out their words.

"The driver saw him—he pushed the girl." Suddenly, the door at the end of the corridor opened, spilling light over the dim cells. Stefano squinted at the sharp intrusion and took a step back from the bars.

The two men standing at the far end were nothing but dark silhouettes. Stefano stared, but he couldn't make out any detail on either of them. He could tell they were looking at him.

Suddenly, one of the men turned to the other wearing the police cap. "Driver's wrong," he said. That voice…

The police officer sounded skeptical. "We've got a witness giving the same story."

"They're wrong too. She tripped—it was an accident." Suddenly, the man lifted his hand and offered it to the officer. Stefano could make out a handful of bills. "That's the story. He goes free."

The officer paused. Then, he took the notes, crumpling them in his fist. "How afraid are you of loose lips, Damiani?" He sounded amused.

"As much as you are," came the steadfast reply. More silence—a stalemate between the two as both refused to back down from their locked horns. Then, the police lifted his hand, bobbing the crinkled notes up and down. "Feels a little too light for letting a dangerous man go."

More bills were handed over. Finally, the officer seemed satisfied. He walked over to Stefano's cell while the other man lagged behind. Stefano heard the cell door shrill as it opened.

"You know how to choose your friends," the officer told him, holding the door open. "Get out of here." Stefano walked out of the cell, passing the officer, and headed towards the man at the end of the corridor. As he neared the light, the man's face became clear. Stefano's steps slowed.

"Giacomo," he said. "How did you know?"

Giacomo didn't answer. He turned and walked, his gait quick and firm. Stefano followed after him. They left the police station behind, but still Giacomo didn't slow down.

"Giacom—."

He whirled around, suddenly confronting Stefano. He felt palms strike his chest and stumbled back when Giacomo shoved him. "Did you really do it?" he snapped furiously.

Out of everyone, Stefano thought he would understand. "She told me herself—she never cared about you! Not one bit! How do you think I'd react to that?"

"Not with attempted murder!" Giacomo hissed, stepping forward to close the distance between them. "Not like someone I hardly recognize! I haven't seen you in years, Stefano. I don't know what paths you're walking down without me, but I'm begging you—don't walk down this one. Don't become a man that forces me to tell myself, 'Not Stefano. Not him.' I'm begging you." He suddenly clutched the thin chain around his neck and tugged it up. From behind his collar, his dog tag rose. Jingling against it was the small, cylindrical locket. "What happened to him, Stefano? What happened to my _friend?_ Tell me!"

Stefano didn't know how to respond. Attempted murder… Giacomo knew. He knew there had been intent. He was a soldier, and yet he was defending a criminal. After all these years—so much time to erase it all and yet Giacomo was still looking out for him as though they were still boys in Salerno.

"Nothing to say?" A bitter smile crossed Giacomo's face. He let go of the chain. The dog tag and locket dropped against his chest. He turned away, letting out a hollow laugh. "Maybe I'm already too late." His wide shoulders dropped. Giacomo's voice was heavy when he asked, "But now we're here, face-to-face again. How have you been, Camera Boy?"

"Alright. And what about you, Dock Boy?"

Giacomo looked over his shoulder at him.

* * *

They traveled back to Salerno together. Never again did either of them bring up what happened in Verona. Stefano was relieved. The words spoken outside that police department still stung. When they arrived back in Salerno, Stefano silently implored his hometown to remind him of who he was.

Giacomo's mother's cataracts had gotten to the point where she had been assigned a caretaker. Stefano saw the sadness in Giacomo's face when he realized his mother could no longer meet his eyes, but he put up a smile for her so she'd be able to hear it in his voice.

Giacomo couldn't stay—he never did anymore. Stefano did what he'd told himself he would stop doing. He went to the airport. There was no way he couldn't. Not when it was Giacomo.

He hugged his mother. She told him that she'd heard of how activities overseas was heating up and pleaded for him to be careful. Gently, Giacomo reassured her. He told her, like always, not to worry.

"Wait for me, Mamme," he said. "I'll be home before you know it." Finally, he broke away from her. He turned to Stefano, but found his friend's eyes lowered. "Hey," he said. Stefano found it in him to look up. He saw Giacomo smile wide. Suddenly, Stefano felt himself being pulled into a tight hug. "Promise me," Giacomo said, "that you'll keep snapping those pictures, Camera Boy. They're what brought us together. They're what makes you _you_. Just remember that, okay?" He pulled back, his hands still clasped over Stefano's arms. With a coy grin, he joked, "Sorry, did I hurt you again?"

Instead of answering, Stefano began uneasily, "Giacomo…" He had to bring it up. He couldn't push Verona back any longer. What Giacomo had done for him at the police station… Stefano wanted him to know that he was grateful for that. And that he intended to keep that promise, as he had always done. He had to tell Giacomo all this—let him know. "I—."

The intercom overhead cut him off, announcing that it was time to board. Giacomo's eyes flickered up. He let go of Stefano and took a step back. Already, the distance was unrecoverable. "Hold that thought," he said. "Tell me next time we see each other." The duffel bag was snatched up. Stefano watched his back shrink as he jogged towards departures. Before he disappeared out of sight, Giacomo turned one more time to give Stefano a little wave.

Goodbye.

In the fall of 2002, Capitano Giacomo Damiani was awarded the Gold Medal of Military Valor in public honor of his heroic military acts—his last. The award was bestowed posthumously. When Giacomo came home, and when Stefano saw him next, there was an Italian flag draped over his coffin.


	15. Dearly Departed

Flowers rested against engraved stone. It was getting cold—they'd start to wilt soon. A few days after the funeral, a government worker knocked on the door of that tiny apartment and gave the woman who answered a sealed envelope with a check inside. She took it and closed the door after a brief word of thanks. Then, she went back into the apartment, to where a blind, older woman sat at a small table, and told her that the first payment from the death gratuity had arrived. When the caretaker asked if she ought to open the envelope and read out the amount, the blind woman shook her head. She leaned one elbow on the table, pressing her hand tightly over her mouth as tears silently rolled down her cheeks.

He was standing in front of that small plot of land, staring down at the framed portrait leaning against the headstone. It sat just below that name. Two dates—birth and death. _Here lies a soldier, a son, a friend, and a hero._ He gazed at the face he knew all too well—supposedly, it was the face of the one resting in the ground in front of him. The fact that this was the truth he was being forced to accept angered him.

Or maybe that anger was for something else. He'd had only one chance. _Hold that thought_.

 _I held onto it, Giacomo. Why didn't you just come back? Why couldn't you have just let me make things right?_ All he could think about was how Giacomo had looked at him in front of that police station—those accusatory eyes. They bore into him from beyond the grave. He wished they'd stop looking at him. He wished they'd let him rest.

But then came that voice—that other voice he hadn't heard for so long. Not since he was 12, standing on the side of that road and looking down at that squirrel. He felt comfortable hearing it. It was like being reunited with an old childhood friend.

 _There's still time_ , it told him, _to make things right_.

Stefano turned around. There was no one around him. He already knew that.

 _Go on. You know what to do_. _Just don't be careless this time_.

* * *

He didn't like it when women cried. Such beautiful creatures, and tears only served to stain—tarnish. But he did nothing, keeping his head gently bowed as the two of them absorbed the news.

There, there, Emily, he wanted to say. Don't cry.

But he did nothing. His eyes were lowered to the newspaper on the coffee table. The news had reached them by mouth, but it was also here in print. Black headlines read _WOMAN FOUND STABBED IN HER APARTMENT_. Such ugly words. Stab—that word rolled off the tongue heavy and clotted like dry paint.

He heard her say something through her tears, asking why someone would do such a thing. But her words sounded funny—muddled, like he was listening underwater, or as if he didn't quite exist where she did.

Why _would_ someone do such a thing?

Do what again?

Stefano blinked. Oh, yes. The headline. A young woman had been found in her apartment with fatal stab wounds. Poor Lucia. She had been so beautiful.

He sighed, waiting for Emily's tears to mellow out. Stefano had come to tell his dear friend something, and it was unfortunate timing that this bit of news had caught up to them in this moment. He didn't have long to stay. Another contract had been signed. He was flying out tomorrow and leaving all this behind.

His sigh must have sounded melancholy, because then Emily spoke up. "I'm so sorry, Stefano. I don't know how you must feel. You two were friends for a long time, weren't you?"

"Yes. Long before he joined the army," Stefano replied quietly. Emily didn't catch the strangeness of his words over the sound of her own sniffling. "Emily, dear, I… I don't want to undermine what's happened, but I've something to tell you. There's not much time left."

"What is it?"

"I'm leaving," he said. "Tomorrow. Salerno, Italy—all of it. I'm heading over to Afghanistan to do a wartime series." He paused. "I won't be able to make it to Lucia's funeral, but do pass my respects forward to her, won't you?"

"Oh, but…" Emily took a few seconds to digest the news. "That's so… that's so dangerous."

"I think," Stefano said slowly, "I've found my calling."

"Is this…?" Emily's voice dipped down into a whisper. She leaned forward, continuing, "I'm so sorry—please don't get upset. But is this about Giacomo?"

"This is _for_ Giacomo," Stefano corrected gently. "You know, once he told me that I didn't know what it was like. And he was right, absolutely right. I don't know what it's like. Nobody at home does. I can't stand it. They called him brave, but I want them to know exactly _why_ he was brave. After all he's done, it's the least I can do for him."

"Wow, that's so… beautiful. You really are a wonderful man."

He let his appreciation show through the faintest flicker of a smile, his eyes returning down to the headline on the coffee table.

"Just be careful."

"I am to photograph the toils of soldiers, Emily. I will not forsake capturing the vital essence of those scenes for a bit of safety."

Emily sighed, wiping the last traces of her tears from her cheeks. "Sometimes, Stefano, you worry me."

His eyes came back up. "There's really no need to be."

The next day, while the police were still investigating the murder of the young woman, Stefano was several thousand miles up in the air—cruising over the ocean with the plane's nose pointed in the direction of the Middle East. He'd been given a manual with very clear instructions on what to do once the plane touched down and how to get to the military base. But that manual had been tucked aside for now, and Stefano's attention was focused on the newspaper article that was giving the update on Lucia's murder investigation.

Finding a lead was difficult. According to the article, the murder weapon was missing and there was no trace of the killer's fingerprints anywhere in the apartment. Ah, speaking of which…

Stefano folded the newspaper in half and set it aside. He picked up a catalog he'd brought along and began perusing it. Inside was an array of Fratelli Orsini gloves—handmade and designer. Perfect for his style. He'd recently grown a fondness for the look of gloves on him.

When the plane touched down, and Stefano stepped out from the airport, the first thing he noticed was the heat. It was mid-March, so the air was only set to get hotter from here. _Just perfect_ , he thought.

An armored truck had come to pick him up, which surprised him. He had seen a few armored cars back in the days when he'd worked for the president, but those had always held an elegant design to them. Not these—they were bulky and massive, almost like tanks. As Stefano climbed into the passenger side, he asked the driver, "Are we expecting a bit of, ah, trouble on the way?"

"Don't you worry, sir." The driver was American. He glanced over at Stefano, his eyes hidden by a pair of blue-tinted aviators. "Just a precaution." He pressed down on the pedal. Stefano could feel the rumbling of the engine ripple through the entire vehicle like the growl of an aggravated beast. "Where're ya from, man?"

"Salerno."

"Is that like in…?"

"Italy."

"Ah. Cool, cool." The driver made a wide turn onto the road. "So you're a photographer, huh? What made you want to come out here? Could'a stayed at home and photographed some pretty Italian girls."

Ugh, what an entirely unsophisticated companion Stefano had found himself saddled with. But Stefano kept his disdain well disguised. "Thought I'd get a change of scenery," he replied casually. "Leave the comfy, air-conditioned rooms behind for a little bit of excitement, you know?"

"I hear ya, man," the driver replied. The car hit a bump in a road, lightly jostling the men inside. "Hear ya loud and clear. But just a word of warning—I'm sure you already know this, but this ain't going to be your typical shoot. Nothing's posed. Nothing's going to wait for you to wrap up. And if worse comes to worst, the other side isn't going to care whether you're a soldier or photographer. Keep in mind, Valentini—this is the real deal."

"I'm well aware," Stefano replied. "I didn't expect a job with a contract that has three pages dedicated to liabilities and lawsuit waivers to be very cushy."

"I'm just giving you a heads-up. People tend to pass over the fine print, which is why the most important things get put in there."

"Well rest assured, I skimmed over enough of it to get the gist of what I'm exposing myself to—death, injury, being held captive. Oh, and my favorite: trauma. All in all, quite the cheery list."

"And one last thing," the driver said. "I'm sure you saw it—it was one of the most important clauses. The soldiers aren't there to protect you. They've got more than enough on their hands. You're, well, pretty much on your own once you're out there. A spectator to it all."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver glance at him before turning back to the road ahead.

"Well, you've certainly got the pep. I guess that's better than being bogged down by nerves."

They'd left the airport and city behind, swapping paved roads for a bumpy dirt one that stretched out through the arid, barren land like a piece of carelessly-laid string. Stefano watched the scenery as it passed by his passenger window, though it was nothing to write home about. Dirt, dirt, and more dirt… sometimes shrubs that looked about as lush as the torched sand around them.

After about 20 more minutes—filled with the rumbling of the truck's engine and the clacking of pebbles being thrown up against the vehicle's underbelly—Stefano finally spotted something in the wavering horizon. At first, it looked like nothing more than a gray stripe in the distance. Then, as they neared, the squat, rectangular shapes of the individual buildings began to take form. Stefano continued to observe it as they drove closer. As far as visual appeal went, the base was ranked at the very bottom of the scale. Though, he figured, there were some things that unfortunately needed to follow the function-over-form principle.

A tall fence ran around the perimeter of the base, topped off with barbed wire. Two watchtowers flanked the entrance to the base. "We've got snipers up there," the driver told Stefano as they rolled slowly up to the barrier. "And you can bet they saw us coming from miles away… literally."

A pair of soldiers came out as the truck stopped right in front of the barrier. One came up to the window to talk to the driver while the other walked around to the back inspect the truck's belly. When everything was authenticated, both soldiers stepped to the side. One waved and seconds later, the concrete barrier sank into the ground to let the truck through.

"Welcome to Day One, Valentini," the driver said as he turned the car towards a plot of land where other vehicles were parked. "First on your agenda once I cut this engine should be to let the base commander know you're here. Commander Caivano—should be in his office in Building A3. That one." He pointed through the windshield. Stefano could make out a small black 'A3' on the corner of the building. Well, at least these lackluster structures were labeled—otherwise, he'd never be able to tell one from the next.

Stefano stepped down from the truck. The gravelly ground underneath his shoes crunched as he made his way over to Building A3. From a short distance away, he spied two short flagpoles. One bore the blue NATO flag, while from the other the flag of Italy waved. They were there to signify the identity of the base as one run primarily by the Italian army, though they were shortened as to not be seen above the walls of the base.

Stefano entered the building, which was about as small as it looked from the outside. Inside were a few rooms, one of which was the base commander's office. Commander Caivano was a middle-aged man, incredibly built, and had a face that looked as though it had been crafted in a blacksmith's forge. From behind his desk, he rose as Stefano came in. "Heard you'd just arrived," the Caivano greeted. He stuck out a hand, and Stefano took it. His grip was just as steely as his gaze. "Giosuè Caivano, sir."

"Stefano Valentini." He kept the cordial smile up as Caivano dropped his vice-like grip. "It's an honor, Comandante."

"Allow me to offer my sincerest condolences, Mr. Valentini. I knew Capitano Damiani. He was a good man, and a dedicated soldier."

"I never expected him to be anything less."

Caivano gave a firm nod, a signal that the brief formalities were over. "You'll find a part of the barracks has already been reserved for you, Mr. Valentini. You'll be briefed on the scope of your work. I think it's best if you get started as soon as practical. Should you encounter any problems, do not hesitate to reach out to me or Alescio, my second-in-command." Stefano had just taken his first step to turn when Caivano added, "Oh, and Mr. Valentini." Stefano stopped. "Though I do not wish to impede your work, I must firmly remind you to remain in the sidelines at all times. Do not get in the way of my men."

"Understood, Comandante."

The cameraman in the sidelines—for the next few weeks, that was all Stefano was at that military base. Every time he placed his eye at the viewfinder, he tried seeing through Giacomo's eyes. This had been his friend's everyday, just as university had been Stefano's. It was uncomfortable, grueling. And while the heat made Stefano want to shed his own skin, he felt that there was something crucial missing. There was a hole in this picture he was trying to build up, and the way it gnawed at him drove him mad.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he found Caivano and voiced his dissatisfaction. The base commander listened patiently, but his brow furrowed at Stefano's words.

"Mr. Valentini," he said slowly, each word coming out as solid as stone. "Do correct me if I've interpreted your words wrong, but are you saying you no longer wish to remain at the base?"

"With all due respect, Comandante, I am doing a wartime series. There is much more to that than what is confined within this chain-link fence."

"I think, Mr. Valentini, I understand what it is that drives you. You want to put Damiani's life into pictures to commemorate him. Well this…" Caivano motioned around them. "Was his everyday. He spent a large amount of his service time stationed in bases such as this one."

 _While that may be true_ , Stefano thought _, that isn't what I'm after. I've taken what I can here—to photograph more would be a blatant waste of film. Besides, the Giacomo I saw on those university grounds wasn't born from staying within base walls doing drills. He was born out there, where danger is the thickest. That's what I'm after, Caivano, and don't you dare get in my way._

"I understand, Comandante. However, I'm afraid that won't deter me from the request I just made."

Caivano studied Stefano with those metallic eyes. "The combat hot zones are no place for one such as you, Mr. Valentini. Understand that I cannot in my right mind send a civilian out there."

Stefano returned the gaze just as firmly. "It is within the scope of my work," he said. "As denoted in my contract—the one, you'll find, that contains my signature on each and every page."

The steel weakened, and Stefano knew he had won. "If that's what you _truly_ want, then fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Comandante. I'm glad we had this talk." Stefano returned to the barracks, leaving Caivano to make phone calls and pull strings. The next day, Stefano was told that he was heading up north. Heavy combat was occurring in a small village that had been evacuated early that morning. A unit was being sent up to provide support for the American soldiers that were already there, and Caivano had reserved a spot for Stefano to go with them.

As Stefano was getting into the armored truck, Caivano stopped him for one last time. "I'm reminding you, while I still have the chance," the commander said in a dire voice. "Do not get in the way. Do not do anything foolish. Mr. Valentini, no photograph is worth your life. You are in charge of your own safety. The men out there will do what they can, but they will not jeopardize their lives or those of their squad members for yours." He stepped back to let Stefano get into the truck. "May God protect you."

As the truck drove them away from the base, Stefano felt his heart cracking against his ribcage as he struggled to fathom what he was headed towards. Whatever it was, he wanted to capture every last bit of it with his camera.

And that was exactly what he did when the truck stopped at the outskirts of the village and the soldiers came pouring out. The noises, the sights. The vibrations that shot through the air and hit him like punches. The gunfire. The shouts. The men dragging their injured brethren to safety. The thrill. The terror.

So this was what it was like, Giacomo.

Several of the buildings had already been reduced to chunks of rubble and stray walls from the fight. The opposition couldn't even be seen from where Stefano was. Faceless enemies lobbed metal and fire at them. But while Stefano couldn't see them, he saw the soldiers around them. And as he saw them, his lens did too.

He captured the way they fought. The way they bled. Their fear. Their bravery. The pictures hadn't been developed, and yet Stefano already knew that these were the best pieces he had ever taken.

And then, as Stefano placed his face behind the camera, something odd happened. Not just odd—downright strange. Through the viewfinder, he was focusing on a soldier ducking behind the cover of a concrete wall to reload his gun. Stefano was standing quite far from the solider, so that he was also able to contain the half-obliterated building behind him in the composition. Stefano paused, making sure the focus was steady.

Then, before he could push down and take the photo, he saw the darkened blur of someone passing directly in front of the camera. A stab of irritation pulsed through him, but he was too dedicated to taking the shot to move his face from the camera. Stefano could feel that whoever had passed in front was now standing next to him.

And then they spoke. "Stefano," they said. "Why are you here?" That voice…

No…

 _That voice!_

Quickly, Stefano tore his face away from the camera and whipped his head to the side. No one was standing next to him. Straightening up, Stefano felt the rejuvenated pounding in his chest as he looked around. There wasn't anyone standing close by.

The grip on his camera was tight. There was… there was just _no_ way. It had simply been a trick—his mind warping some other noise he'd heard. And the stress of everything he'd just witnessed had added to that hallucination.

That was it. Yes.

Shortly after, the fire died down. The enemy had either fallen back or sustained too many casualties to keep fighting. There was a calm moment as the soldiers who were still able quickly set up a stronger perimeter around the village and trucks drove off with the wounded. With the last truck, Stefano sent back his latest roll of film. He wanted his greatest works back within the safety of the base, waiting for when he returned to them.

An American lieutenant came to check up on him. "You must be out of your damn mind. Couldn't believe my ears when they told me a photographer was joining us," he said. "How are you doing? Don't seem too banged up."

How was he? Stefano had never felt more alive—more like an artist with the most vibrant, visceral canvas before him. "I'm fine," he replied. "What happens next?"

"Well," the lieutenant replied. "A report's being sent back to command—they'll figure out our next move. Meanwhile, we make sure this area is secure."

 _No, no, none of this boring, rubbish admin nonsense. When do I get_ more? "I see."

For the last two weeks of his contracted term, Stefano never saw any more activity that could match that day. He had returned to the mundane things—the safer ones. And he came to learn that there was nothing interesting about 'safe.'

The term ended, and Stefano returned home to Italy. He had the photographs developed. Due to the sensitive nature of his pieces, and to prevent any possible leakages of military secrets, he had to obtain approval from the Italian government to publicize his photos. Like his days as the president's photographer, very few were chosen. But, to his minimal satisfaction, nearly all of the ones Stefano had taken in that village were approved. The reception was astounding.

Stefano felt as though he had been waiting for this all his life.

They were seen, and they were applauded—the ones that the public was especially moved by. A soldier pressing down on another's bullet wound to stem the bleeding. An American soldier offering a water canteen to an Italian soldier. The reach was international, appearing in articles that spanned several languages. The publicists that desired to incorporate his works requested for his presence and he would come, dressed to impress in a crisp suit. In the place of a tie, he grew a penchant for wearing a scarf instead. Ties were too generic, too… not him. And those Fratelli Orsini's looked _good_ on him.

He couldn't get enough—that never-ending drive to create had him visiting war zones several times. Each time he would return completely reawakened and ready for that recognition he so deserved. And when he got it, oh, was the rush better than any narcotic. Stefano had long forgotten what had pulled him out to Afghanistan in the first place. All he could think about was the art to be made.

As good as it was, it was never enough. Ever since those taken in the village had reached the public eye, his pieces never again climbed to that height. In fact, the recognition dwindled—alarmingly so. The artistic world was never kind to the mediocre, and there was no such thing as second place in it. But Stefano was none of those things. He was _great!_ Why couldn't everyone see that? The maddening frustration compelled him to push safety further and further to the side in order to get that one _masterpiece_ that would return him back into the light—his rightful place.

It had only been a matter of time before Stefano found himself on the receiving end of a bullet. Luckily, the injury was minor, but it placed him out of commission for a few months. He spent his recovery time in the United States, where he'd purchased a nice bit of land in Krimson City. And on that plot, Stefano had a spacey, custom-designed home built. His own little oasis.

Then, in 2004, Stefano could ignore the itch no longer. He flew back to Afghanistan. By this time, several military bases were already familiar with him. Activity had picked up considerably by then. Military tension was thick enough to cut through.

Stefano remembered that day clearly—that glorious day. Oh, explosions ripped. The ground shook like something enormous was trying to claw its way out from beneath. He had been urged again and again not to go where the battle raged. It was too risky, they told him. Best to play it safe—there it was again, that despicable word. No, leave safety to the dullards. The philistines. He _needed_ this.

The battle being fought was a losing one. Men were dying at too quick a rate, and the order to pull back was relayed before more joined them. But the severity, the danger, only served to make his pieces that much more incredible. Fall back? No. This was where that masterpiece would _finally_ be created.

He remembered the exact words the soldier shouted to him. He was telling Stefano to move. Fall back. Run, before it was too late. He heard the distant whistle, and knew that it was only seconds before the explosion would occur. But there was still time.

Still time for another photograph. The one.

And so he'd lifted the camera to his face. He held the soldier within the confines of the viewfinder. The soldier had turned away to look back, but when he turned back to Stefano, he—.

What?

No.

Stefano remembered every _single_ detail from that day. It was impressed in his mind like a permanent image in silver halide. He knew what had happened and what hadn't.

But what he saw now…

The Exploding Soldier had been his greatest work. It was the genesis of what he was now—something greater than he had ever been. He never knew the man who had given his life for that piece. All Stefano knew was that it had been an American soldier.

But what Stefano saw in the viewfinder then was no American. It was a face he hadn't seen in a long time. One he thought he had lost.

It wasn't possible. How could it be?

He stared at Stefano through the viewfinder, his piercing gaze desperate and concerned. Terrified. "Stefano, put the camera down!" he shouted. That voice. It was his voice. "Put the camera down before it's too late!"

Seconds. He had seconds. Somehow, Stefano found himself trapped in the past, present, and future. He knew what would happen. He was in that very moment, but he knew everything that would happen from then on. Put the camera down?

Why?

But he knew what would happen. No, Giacomo. No. You're not supposed to be the Exploding Soldier.

Giacomo.

 _No!_

The seconds were up. Time's passed. His actions played out like a recording. There was the roar of an explosion. He saw Giacomo turned to look. He pressed down on the shutter release button.

The Exploding Soldier.

But it didn't end there. He felt the heat first. And then the shrapnel came. It hit his camera. He felt it disintegrate in his hands. And then the most terrible, _terrible_ pain erupted in his right eye. It was awful. It spread throughout his body until pain was all he could feel.

Suddenly, Stefano jolted awake. His agonized cry was strangled and died in his throat. A hand, claw-like, came up and gripped the right side of his face. The phantom pain pulsed through his right eye. Too real. _Too real_.

Where was he? What was happening to him? It was dark. He wasn't on the battlefield anymore. He was lying down—on something soft. A bed. And he wasn't alone. Something shifted next to him. He looked.

Loose chestnut curls splayed over the pillow, and bare shoulders peeked out from underneath them. That smell—her perfume. It was everywhere. All over the sheets, all over him.

 _Romana? Is that you? Am I back in Salerno?_

 _… Lucia?_

And then Stefano remembered. No… no. That was all past. Behind him. Discarded like an irrelevant album. And good riddance, too.

But part of his mind was still locked in turmoil. His abrupt awakening had left him in a troubled state of delirium. He had to make sure of one thing— _that thing_.

Flinging the covers back, he touched his feet to the floor. He tried to stand, but quickly ducked his head down with a soft grunt. That side of his face, his eye, still tingled with the echoes of that shrapnel. He'd been taken to the field hospital within an hour of the explosion, and the surgeons had done what they could. They told him the tissue was damaged beyond repair. He would never see out of that eye again.

It didn't matter. Stefano had lost that part of him long before that.

Lifting his head, he rose. He found his briefs on the floor by the balcony. Then, he went to his camera bag and unclasped a small pocket. Inside was a folded, frayed paper. It was an article. His greatest piece's first exposure to the limelight. Stefano walked into the kitchen and flicked the lights on. He sat at a chair and unfolded the article. The large headlines read: MEANING OF LIFE THROUGH A WAR PHOTOGRAPHER'S LENS.

Ha. No doubt the author had been quite proud of that.

And then, above those words, there it was. There it was.

But tonight, Stefano didn't look upon it with the fondness he usually had. His surviving eye narrowed and he brought the photograph closer. He scrutinized the blurred form of the soldier, looking for any sort of telling detail. Trying to discern the flag patch on his arm was hopeless. And the soldier—in this picture, he had lost all semblance of the man he was before this. Now, the only thing he'd become was a visage of death.

Just like Giacomo.

 _No, not like Giacomo!_

Stefano parted his lips and drew in a sharp breath. _Stop it! Stop it! Whoever you are, trying to show me things that are best left forgotten—stop it!_ But he couldn't stop thinking about it, those words the soldier had shouted at him through the camera before he'd been killed.

"Put down the camera, Giacomo?" Stefano uttered softly into the night air. "Weren't you the one who said it—keep snapping those pictures?" He saw those eyes again. Boring into him. Accusatory. Hurt. _I made you a promise, Giacomo. I'm still keeping it, aren't I? Don't look at me like that. DON'T! You betrayed me first!_

"Darling?" Stefano flinched. Quickly, he folded the article and tossed it onto the table. Leaning back in his chair, he saw her standing in the doorway. Ah, his sweet muse.

She'd put on a bathrobe, but left the sash undone. With her arms crossed over her stomach, Celestina continued, "Is everything alright?"

He stared at her, filling his sight with her image. As he did, the eyes disappeared. He was liberated. Slowly, Stefano stood. He walked over to her. Celestina watched silently as he approached.

He stopped when they were just inches apart. Pulling her arms from her stomach, he snaked his hands through the open seam in her bathrobe and wrapped them around her waist.

"Everything," he told her, "is as it should be."


	16. Straight Hair

The temporary discharge, they had told him, was for the express purpose of protecting him. With the latest murder, the killer had named him specifically, which made the KCPD exceedingly nervous. They had also told him that it was clear the investigations were taking a toll on him. For the sake of his mental health, it was best that he take a break. Detective Hendriks was made lead detective in his stead, and a subsidiary detective was assigned under her.

That's what they _said_. That's what they _thought_. But no, they were dead wrong. The worse thing they could have done to him was taking him off the case. It was just another nail driven in. _Failure_. It had been printed on that card.

 _I'm so sorry, Marie. I'm so, so sorry. Maybe that card was right_.

No. Even if Ledford was on temporary leave, that wouldn't stop him. The KCPD couldn't see the connection—refused to, even—but he knew it was there. Had it not been for all the red and yellow tape he'd been forced to drag himself through, Ledford was sure he would've landed this killer in prison by now.

 _No,_ he quickly told himself. _Don't think like that. Laws exist to hold us up above deprivation. To cast them away would be to devolve into a criminal._

It was just so hard sometimes.

But there was another lead—one that Stefano had let slip towards the end of that interrogation. Celestina Amonte. If he could get her, then he'd get Stefano as well. Two birds with one stone.

 _Amonte… her plate's clean. A little too clean. Only thing that's there is that self-defense murder case two years back._ Ledford crossed his arms, leaning back in the creaky computer chair. Overhead, the apartment fan spun lazily.

He remembered that case. It had been simple. Several cases were like that—typically, the people who killed weren't very good at hiding the trail. Most murders weren't premeditated. The average suspect didn't wake up in the morning knowing they were going to take a life that day.

But this one… the Curtis case… maybe it was worth a second look. Ledford simply couldn't ignore it, especially not in this new light.

Finally, an excuse not to sit around miserable in this apartment for a second longer. The walls of this room were starting to take on the feeling of that of a padded cell. Leford rose, pulling his jacket off from the back of the chair. His other hand snatched up the keys from the table.

Krimson City was one of the jurisdictions that felt the need to hold onto evidence indefinitely, with only rare exceptions given to destroy those for obsolete cases. A year after the verdict was passed, the evidence for a certain case would be moved from the police department to an evidence storage facility. There were two located on the outskirts of Krimson City, next to the forensics tech lab.

Ledford parked his car in front of one of the facilities. An electronic lock sealed the front door, but a quick swipe of his badge over the scanner got him through. To be honest, this was only the second time Ledford had ever come here—usually, it was the active cases he was focused on.

A metal detecting gate stood just beyond the front door. Next to it was a bored-looking security guard in a bulletproof booth. Ledford took up a plastic bin from the stack on the floor and placed it on a short conveyer belt. He emptied his pockets into the bin, dropping into it his phone, keys, and wallet. As he was no longer technically on duty, he'd left his gun at the apartment.

Waving for the security guard's attention, Ledford lifted his shirt and inquisitively tapped his belt buckle. The guard returned with a nod. The detective heaved a sigh and unbuckled his belt, unthreading it from his jeans before plopping into the bin. He saw the guard push a button, which sent the conveyer belt moving. Ledford walked through the gate and waited for the plastic bin to catch up.

Honestly, protocol got so annoying sometimes. After retrieving everything from the bin, Ledford hurried deeper into the storage facility. Next up were a receptionist's desk and a short corridor with elevator entrances. Ledford was just walking past the desk when the girl behind it piped up.

"Oh, sorry sir! No one's allowed to go down without checking in first!"

Great. And if he checked in, there'd be a record of him coming here when he was technically supposed to be decommissioned. But maybe there was a way around—dodge the tape for once.

Turning back to the receptionist, Ledford flashed the inside of his jacket. "Detective Ledford," he introduced. "I'm just here to check up on something—won't take more than five minutes or so."

The girl stared back at him. He could tell from the look in her eyes behind her thin-framed glasses that she wasn't convinced. "Um, _anyone_ who steps in here and wants to go down to evidence storage needs to sign in," she insisted.

Slowly, Ledford meandered over to the desk. "How long have you been working here?"

She seemed threatened by his words. "Do I need to call the guard?"

"Because I'm _sure_ I would have remembered seeing you," Ledford quickly continued. At that, the receptionist paused. Leaning against the desk, Ledford stuck out a hand. "Jackson, by the way. And you are…?"

"Diana." He noticed that her voice had gotten a bit meek. She shook his hand.

"Diana—great to meet you. Listen, and I hate having to ask this from you, but I'm gonna need you to do me a solid. Is that alright?"

"You don't want to sign in?"

"It's not that I _don't want to_. It's just that I really need to pop in and out of storage real quick. I'm following a really important lead. Think you could let me through?"

"Um…" Diana's eyes flashed towards the direction of the guard. "I… well, I guess? You said you're a detective, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then… I guess it's okay."

"Diana, you're amazing." The girl blushed slightly. "This will just be our little secret—between you and me, okay? Hey, thanks again!" Quickly, he walked down to the elevator corridor and pressed the button. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he thought to himself, _I still got it_.

The elevator chimed. Ledford stepped in. He scanned his badge again on the pad below the buttons, and then pressed the SB-5 floor button. Exhaling loudly, Ledford stepped back and leaned on the bannister. His eyes followed the moving lights as it told him which floors he was passing through.

He arrived at the fifth sub-basement level when the chime sounded again. The doors slid open, revealing isle after isle of shelves, racks, and refrigerated storages. Ledford glanced up at the signs that labeled each isle. He still remembered the Curtis case's codification—405LC. Slowly, he walked down the isles until he found it. It was a small cubby where Curtis's personal possessions that had been confiscated for the case were kept. Ledford pulled out the cubby and set it on a nearby table. Sifting through the items, Ledford's hands stilled on one in particular—an audio recorder.

He remembered this. It was a common thing that journalists and reporters held onto. They were things to be used to capture spur-of-the-moment thoughts and tidbits to be revisited later. And it did a good job of making those people look like nutcases talking to themselves.

During the Curtis case he'd listened through the voice files on this thing, and had felt quite disturbed while doing so. It seemed Curtis had some sort of fascination with La Contessa—pouring over every bit of research and rumor he could get his hands on of her. And it seemed the obsession culminated into a final meeting with her, where he had tried to take things too far. At least that was the story argued by the defense attorney in court, and Newell had used Curtis's unhealthy fixation as one of his main weapons.

But… maybe that explanation was far too obvious. The curated conclusion. Had Curtis been an obsessive fan who had lost control when meeting La Contessa, or was there something more to the investigative journalist's behavior?

Ledford glanced around. There was, of course, no one around. He reached into the cubby and took out a pair of headphones. After plugging them into the audio recorder, Ledford switched the device on.

The latest recordings were dated from August 2005—when Curtis had died. Ledford scrolled to a recording that had been made a week before his death. Then, through the headphones, the detective listened to the words of a dead man.

"La Contessa," Curtis began, "The kind of woman that is the root of bad decisions, but have a man gladly make them. Celestina Amonte is fascinating—just too damn fascinating. Why she isn't the subject of investigation by others is beyond me. Behind all that foundation, that mascara, and those ruby red lips, there's something. There is something.

"Celestina Amonte—let's see. Not a hundred percent Italian like she lets everyone believe with her stage name and her darling little accent. Her pop's French, and a man as filthy rich as he is did what you'd expect—went to Italy to find an eye candy wife about twenty years his junior. And he certainly found one. I'll tell you what—at least we know where our Krimson City sweetheart got her looks.

"I'm not finding much through my research, which is odd. For someone so in love with the spotlight, you'd think Celestina would be eager to put her life out on show. You know—a La Contessa origins story. But she's tight-lipped about anything related to her past. Why?"

Ledford found the next recording in chronological order. This one was much shorter.

"I've found references in articles from Milan referring to 'the Amonte girls.' Monsieur Rich has also been quoted at one point saying 'my girls.' I don't remember Celestina ever mentioning a sister."

The last recording on the list was made on the night of Curtis's death. The investigative journalist had left the recorder running during his meeting with Celestina. Judging by the way their voices had been muffled, Ledford assumed Curtis stowed the recorder away in his pocket.

In this audio clip, the background was polluted by the noises of other distant conversations, footsteps, chairs scraping, and glasses clinking. But Ledford could still make out every word spoken.

It began innocently enough. Curtis interviewed Celestina like any journalist would—asking the dry questions about her inspirations and her passions. But then when Curtis started edging towards personal questions, Celestina began to grow more and more vague. And then, though Ledford was only listening to the ghost of their meeting, he could practically feel the atmospheric change when Curtis laid down _that_ question.

"Ms. Amonte," he said. "Why don't you tell me more about Alessandra?"

There was a heavy pause. And then Celestina finally spoke back up. "What did you say you were again? A reporter?"

"Investigative journalist."

"Ah." Her voice had become very, very soft. Ledford strained to catch every word through the muffled audio. "Now that's a name I've not heard in a long time. Why are you bringing this up?"

"Because of this article." Ledford could hear the ruffling of paper. Celestina said nothing, so Curtis continued, "It was big news in Milan when it happened. I apologize if this is bringing up some bad memories—I know it must have been hard for you and your family. But there's _something_ missing in this article, and I get the feeling you know what it is."

Celestina gave a delicate, wistful sigh. "After it happened, Papa locked himself in his study for days. He was ever the family man, you know—we were his most precious things. Guilt weighed heavily on my entire family." She hesitated for a beat, and then added, "They should have loved her."

"What else? You're still not telling me."

"You certainly are a prying one, aren't you?" Celestina's voice had suddenly changed entirely to something Ledford hardly expected from her. It sounded of something… dark. Maybe even dangerous. "You're right—this is a difficult topic, and I don't like talking about it."

"Ms. Amonte," Curtis's voice, too, had dipped down a little lower. "You should know I don't leave a single stone unturned. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get what I want. If you don't tell me what _really_ happened to Alessandra that night, I'll have this article posted. Then let's see how well you can keep this on the down-low."

"Well," Celestina replied airily, her voice growing eerily cold. "I see we have at least one thing in common. Fine, you leave me no choice. But… might I ask we take this somewhere a little more private? Out back, perhaps?"

"In the alley? You're not afraid I might do something?"

"I'm not afraid." There was ruffling as Curtis stood from his chair. "Oh," Celestina piped up again. "Leo, darling, be a dear and turn that off—that thing in your pocket. What I say in the alley are for your ears only."

The recording ended there. Ledford knew what happened in the minutes after. Or, at the very least, what he and the officers had found after responding to the 911 call. He pulled the headphones off and looked back into the box.

Along with the audio recorder, they had found another thing on Curtis's body that night. His other pocket had held a newspaper clipping, but it'd become saturated in blood by the time it had gone into police custody. Ledford reached into the cubby and pulled up the clipping. It was stored safely in a protective sleeve. Through the transparent plastic, Ledford scrutinized the maroon-stained paper. But any detail of the newspaper article that Curtis had showed Celestina was lost behind the old blood. All that remained was the top part of the newspaper where the publication name and date were.

On second thought…

Ledford pulled a small notepad from his pocket and took the pen out from the spiral binding. He flipped to a free page and copied down those two remaining pieces of information. Closing the notebook, he knew he had found all he could here. It was time to take the next few steps in pursuing this lead.

Just as the detective was placing the newspaper clipping back into the cubby, something written on the back caught his eye. Startled, Ledford flipped the article over. There was a handwritten message on the back of the paper, just bordering the bloodstain so that some of the words managed to stay visible. Ledford read what he could, his brow furrowing.

He could only assume Curtis had written this at some point before his death. But it was far too cryptic to be understood, even given the context of his case.

This was something to be mulled over later. Time to take the next step.

* * *

That saying—there's no place like home… well, it was quite true. The little escape had been fun, but home was where the heart was. Oh no, not Milan—that accursed place.

With a flick of its switch, the blow dryer immediately quieted its roar. Celestina set it down, closing her eyes to her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she rolled her head to stretch her neck. She looked down at the curling iron propped up on the counter and hovered a hand over it to gauge its heat. It still needed more time. Curses. This brand always boasted its fast heating time, but it was never fast enough.

Celestina closed her eyes again, letting a soft sigh escape her lips. Knocking at the door quickly made her open them again. Crossing her arms over her chest, she replied, "What is it?" She watched the door open in the reflection.

"Sometimes I get the feeling you live in here."

Celestina gave him a coy smile through the reflection. "Won't you be a little more patient with me, darling? I'm almost done."

"Hmm," Stefano replied. _"Almost._ Something tells me we've two variations on what that word means." He fell silent, not moving from where he leaned on the doorway. Celestina risked a peek and saw him staring. She couldn't read that look in his eye.

Her heart thumped in her chest. She didn't like being seen like this, and he wasn't taking his gaze off of her. Celestina lowered her eyes and quickly stuck a hand out over the curling iron. Feeling a satisfactory amount of heat radiating from it, she quickly took it off its stand.

"Hold on," she suddenly heard Stefano say. Motion in the reflection told her he was moving from the threshold. Lowering the curling iron, Celestina looked over her shoulder. He came over, cocking his head a few degrees to the side as if observing something peculiar. A gloved hand came up, nearly brushing her cheek, and carried with it a lock of her chestnut hair in its sweep. That hand flipped over, and he gently pinched the lock with his thumb as it slid between the leather. All the while, Stefano's eyes never left Celestina's. "I've hardly seen you before you curl your hair. You almost look like… an entirely different woman."

Celestina gave him an uneasy smile. "That's just silly," she retorted. "It's just hair." As soon as the end of the lock dropped from between his hand, she turned back to the curling iron. She began parting her hair into workable sections.

"You know, amore mio," Stefano continued, "I've just realized something tonight. I don't know why it didn't come to me sooner." As Celestina wrapped the first lock around the curling iron, she watched Stefano cross his arms in the reflection. "Amonte… Amonte… I told myself I've heard that name before. It's been rolling around in the back of my head like a marble. And then…" Stefano reached into his blazer. From it, he pulled a small glossy rectangle—a photograph. But all Celestina could see in the reflection was its white back. Stefano's eyes lowered to the image. "Nicholas Amonte," he said softly. "That's Papa's name, isn't it? The one on his last leg of life in the hospital?"

The clamp on the curling iron opened, and the newly spiraled lock of hair swung freely from the metal rod. "Yes?" Her voice curled up in a question.

Pinching the photo between his fingers like a playing card, Stefano flipped it around for Celestina to see. The woman's gaze fell on the picture of a couple posed romantically in front of a Veronese sunset. "Small world," Stefano mused.

"When did you take that?"

"When I was a budding young photographer," Stefano answered, turning the picture back around to admire a relict of the past. "Your papa is a lover of small talk, I discovered. Would always take a moment to chat with me whenever I was around. Spoke about his youth, and then about mine. 'I have a daughter around your age,' he told me. 'We sent her off to London to study at the Royal Academy.' I didn't think much of it then. Six years later…" Stefano's eye came up. "Well, fate is a funny thing. Wouldn't you say so, amore mio?"

"I suppose," Celestina replied lightly. "Did he ever say anything else to you?"

"About…?"

Another lock fell from the curling iron—a fresh new curl. "Me."

"Aside from that brief anecdote? No."

"I see."

* * *

Even with the traces of the past hidden under dried blood, there were still ways to dig them out. Click on the search bar. Type the publication name. The date. Press enter. There it was.

It was the August 10th, 1998 edition of the Corriere Della Sera daily paper that Ledford found, saved on an Internet archive as a PDF. He found the exact article that Curtis had held onto. The entire thing was in Italian. After pausing for a moment to deliberate, Ledford opened a new tab and typed the article's headlines into Google Translate. The English translation was a bit shoddy, but clear enough to tell Ledford what he needed to know.

The detective frowned as his eyes took in the text. He leaned back in his chair, trying to digest this new piece of the puzzle. Death in Milan—a body found at the bottom of the bridge. _Now isn't that interesting?_

Slowly, Ledford translated the rest of the article, trying his best to salvage meaning behind the broken English. Apparently, it had been deemed to be the suicide of an emotionally distraught girl. _Poor thing._ In respect for the grieving family, the girl's name was never released.

Ledford exhaled heavily through his nose, lacing his fingers together above the desktop and leaning them over his mouth. His mind returned to the strange, handwritten message that'd been found on the back of the newspaper clipping. He still had no idea how to piece that with everything he'd learned so far.

His phone suddenly rang. Ledford's eyes flew to it. They softened at the sight of the name in the caller ID, and Ledford reached over to answer the call. "Hey," he said, closing the laptop lid shut. The article disappeared out of sight.

Ledford rose from his chair. Pacing slowly around the room, he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. His eyebrows rose. "Really? That's great." He paused again to listen. "Yeah, you can come home any time you want. I'll be here." Ledford couldn't prevent the hint of a smile from touching his face as he replied, "Right, you too. Talk to ya later, Bunny."

After what he'd heard over the phone—the voice that always put him at ease—Ledford could barely remember what he had been doing earlier. He glanced back to the desk. There sat the laptop and the notebook opened to that one page.

He thought for a moment. Maybe the lieutenant was right—he _did_ need a break. This little side project did nothing but stress him out even more, and he'd need a clear head for once he was assigned back onto the murder investigations.

For once, Ledford figured, it was time to set all this aside. There was no harm in that.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: "You know, son, I have a daughter around your age."**_

 _ **"Yessir, and in six years' time, you won't be the only one she calls 'Daddy'."**_

 _ **And that is the story of how Stefano died.**_


	17. Heaven's Pair of Angels

_**A/N: I've started my internship, and let me tell ya** **—getting up at 6am every morning is just ugh. You want death, Stefano? Just take a picture of me when I get home at the end of the day.**_

* * *

Soft, slow beeps filled the background as she sat still in her chair. Her hands rested daintily over her crossed legs. It was getting late, but she couldn't bear to leave that room. Her beloved was next to her, though she didn't want to disturb him from his sleep. It was all he seemed to do nowadays—sleep. It saddened her to have to come to terms with the fact that her husband had weakened to this nearly unresponsive state. But it was the truth. He needed his rest, and so she didn't disturb him.

Emilia's eyes drifted over his motionless form on the hospital bed. The silence, coupled with the static atmosphere, invited the slow fog of nostalgia to drift over her. She found herself reminiscing over the events of her life that had brought her here to this quiet hospital room.

Her family had never approved of her marriage. They'd warned Emilia that when the first wrinkles started to show, he would discard her like a pair of worn shoes and trade her for another. And she knew they were probably right. But Emilia had wanted to be a dancer.

She had been 18 when she learned her dream would never come true. With her family's finances, she wouldn't be able to attend ballet school. And then a man came along, charming and, more importantly, rich. While he courted her, one of the things he did was pay for her entire schooling.

Nicholas, she found, had been 36 when they met—nearly 20 years her senior. He grew up surrounded by towers of cash. His bank accounts never showed amounts below eight digits. He was only marrying because it was something his family expected him to do, though he knew nothing of it. And he was only marrying her because he found her attractive. But wearing his ring meant she could be a ballerina, so she had told him yes when he proposed.

She had been raised on how to be the perfect wife—devoted. Kempt. Nicholas, on the other hand, seemed only to be married in fact and nothing else. His heart had been too spoiled and carefree to believe in matrimony. The man cared for her, of course, but more like a friend with benefits. He loved her in the form of cliché, over-the-top dates, expensive gifts, and nights on his wide, canopy bed. When he didn't offer these things to her, he ignored her completely.

Sometimes he would take long trips on his yacht with some of his other upper-class mates. They brought along pretty models to take over the water with them. Nicholas had always told Emilia they were more for his single friends, though Emilia had known better than to expect him to keep his hands off of them. But she was living her dream, and she told herself that was what mattered.

She didn't expect him to change his ways. Nicholas was almost 40, and his kind of money allowed him the luxury of never having to grow up. Emilia had already resolved to live the rest of her domestic life as a wife that was only granted her husband's affection whenever he was home and wanted sex.

And then that all changed when, at the age of 23, Emilia became pregnant. Nicholas seemed to become a different man as his wife's belly grew. He stopped going out on the yachting trips. He stayed at home more. He talked about his child and how he'd give it everything it wanted. For once, he called him and Emilia a family.

Then, eight weeks into her pregnancy, the doctor told Emilia that there were two heartbeats detected in the ultrasound. She was having twins.

* * *

It was raining today in Krimson City. Even from inside, the downpour could be heard as the torrents battered the roof.

He found her in the studio, having pulled an armchair up to the window to watch the water cascade down the glass. Stefano spied the mug in her hands and the string of the teabag draped over the rim. "No wine this time?" he teased lightly.

"It calms me," Celestina answered simply, her eyes still on the muddled window. Her hands cradled the ceramic mug. Stefano turned towards the direction of the darkroom, but heard Celestina say, "Darling, what ever became of my little Marie?"

Hmm. This was the first time since returning Celestina had brought that one up. Stefano stopped.

"It's been a while," he pointed out. "But she, like the other pieces, have long since fallen into police custody. I'm sure they have quite the collection of my works by now." He thought back to that detective. _I know you have some part in this_. Stefano wondered what might have motived his words—a solid hunch, or simple frustration. Whichever it was, it hardly mattered. That detective was never going to pin him down. Let him try, though. It was much more fun, and much more rewarding to watch him fail every time. But…

Stefano's eye lowered, and then drifted in Celestina's direction. She was on Ledford's radar now too. It was all because of that damned interrogation—the end of it. That slip had been unintentional, a mistake. Something very unlike him. But for the longest time, Stefano had only ever known to care for himself. Now there was something else, another part—like another limb to suddenly be mindful of. This woman. He should have cut this extra bit of tissue off, but he had let it grow on him for too long. It was a part of him now and he couldn't bring himself to take the knife to it.

"Amore," he continued. "I think you know as well as I do that it's best to lay low for now until the pressure dissipates. Take an artist's hiatus, so to speak."

"After our little trip," Celestina replied, "I thought you'd be itching to jump back into the fray."

"I'm only thinking in our best interest."

"Well…" Celestina uncrossed her legs and looked back at him. "How very… generous of you." She turned to the window and leaned back in her armchair. "When you put it that way, how can I object? Besides, there's no harm in a hiatus. It's almost quiet now." Stefano's gaze jumped up to the window. The rain outside was making a racket.

He heard Celestina give a heavy sigh—one that had her shoulders lift and drop as it escaped from her lips. "Darling," she said again. "That night you told me everything—who you were and every little brushstroke that made composed you—did it end up making you feel… liberated?"

Stefano answered her with a deep, dark chuckle, something bitter like bile in his throat as he did. "People like us, my dear, don't have the luxury of feeling that way anymore." Celestina kept her face turned away towards the murky window. He stepped slowly towards her, draping a hand over the back of her chair. "But, I'll admit, certain… things… have quieted down since then."

Celestina leaned back in her chair. Through the reflection in the window, Stefano caught her melancholy look.

"I miss the silence," she said. Celestina lifted the mug to her face, letting the steam bathe her skin. After a few seconds of hesitation, she lowered it and looked up at Stefano. "Pull up a chair, darling," she told him. "I think I'm ready for some peace. Or, at the very least, whatever counterfeit I can get."

* * *

Nicholas Amonte—or Papa, as they knew him—hardly ever uttered a word of refusal to them. Like a limitless genie, every wish they had was bound to be granted. From the genesis of their young lives, they grew up with that kind of treatment.

Givenchy's latest styles? You'll be the first ones to wear them, mon anges. Bichon frise puppies? I'll get someone to take care of them for you too. Dior cosmetics? Only the finest for mon trésors. Just days after the couple had brought their two little bundles home, dear Papa was already putting in private orders to have custom Bugatti's ready by their eighteenth birthdays.

One girl they named Celestina after the heavens, from where they were sure their little angel came down to bless them from.

The other, her twin sister, they named Alessandra—after a widely famous actress that had long been Emilia's idol growing up.

Both girls, even from young ages, were pictures of perfection—cute as buttons in their lacy dresses with satin bows in their chestnut hair. To Emilia and Nicholas's delight, their little ones both displayed prodigious talents in music. Private tutors, both for schooling and music, were brought in for the Amonte girls.

But as they grew, subtle differences began to show in those identical twins. Emilia was the first to notice.

Unbeknownst to her parents, little Celestina lingered just behind the doorway while her parents spoke in low voices. Mamma was expressing her concern that, because of the private tutors, Celestina and Alessandra weren't able to go to school and make friends like other children did. Nicholas retorted that those tutors were giving top-notch education that no primary school could compare with.

"And the truth is, mon aimé, people like us don't make friends. Can't. The ones who come close only want something. Isn't that right… Emilia?"

Mamma paused for a second. "Yes," she replied softly. "You're right."

Papa sighed delicately. "Well, if that's all…" he said, "I've some things to see to. Sweet little Celestina expressed her desire for horseback riding lessons. Grigorio—you remember him, right—he owns a large horse ranch just on the outskirts of Milan. I need to give him a call."

"Nicholas," Mamma quickly said. "About… about Alessandra…"

"Mon petit Alessandra?" Papa repeated, and Celestina heard both their tones change at the mention of her sister. "What of her? She's a rising star—both of them are."

"Nicholas," Mamma repeated, her voice dipping down to a nervous whisper. Celestina stepped closer to the door, keeping just out of view. Pressing her hands against the wall, she leaned and ear to catch Mamma's next words. "I've started to notice something… strange about her."

"Strange? Like what?"

"She's much quieter than Celestina," Mamma said. "More reluctant to talk to people. And, I don't know… sometimes she gives me this feeling…"

"Emilia."

"Nicholas, please understand. I love her and Celestina dearly. And that's exactly why I'm worried about her."

"They're twins, mon aimé, but that doesn't mean they're wholly identical. If Celestina wants to be in the center of attention and Alessandra doesn't, let them be."

"I suppose you're right." Celestina heard footsteps and quickly darted away from the door before she could be caught eavesdropping.

So Mamma had noticed. Well, Celestina had noticed long before then. She had never told Mamma or Papa because, well, she was afraid that something bad would happen if she did. They were right—there was something strange about Alessandra.

A few days later, they were gathered at the table for dinner. Starters had been finished, and Celestina leaned back to let the server to take her plate away. The main, a salmon dish, was placed in front of them shortly thereafter.

Mamma and Papa were talking about boring adult things. Celestina zoned them out as she picked up her fork. Her eyes flickered to the side and she noticed a scrap of bread. It must've fallen off of one of the plates when the servers had cleared their panzanella away. As she turned her head back, Celestina noticed Alessandra turning back as well from across the table. Their gazes met. Quickly, Alessandra lowered hers to her plate.

Celestina hoped one of the servers would see it and clean it up soon. Otherwise, if Papa noticed it first, someone was going to get an earful. And likely lose their job, too.

Over the course of the meal, Celestina forgot about the dropped bread as Papa proceeded to ask the two of them about their lessons. Dryly, the two girls recited what they learned in order to get Papa's approving nod.

"And your piano lessons?" Mamma added. "How are they going, my little darlings?"

"Good," both said in unison. They looked across the table at each other.

"That's delightful," Mamma said. "Papa and I were thinking of having the two of you play at this year's Christmas party—in front of a big audience. Would you like that?"

"And sing too?" Celestina asked, immediately daydreaming of performing Christmas carols before a mesmerized audience.

"Of course," Mamma replied. She looked across the table. "Would you like that too, Alessandra?"

There was no answer.

"Alessandra?"

Eyes came up, dark—almost a glower. "Yes, Mamma."

A wide, anxious smile quickly appeared on Mamma's face. She shot Papa a look. Papa cleared his throat loudly and told a nearby server, "I think it's time for dessert."

Dessert was only ever served to the girls. Mamma never had any, and all Papa ever took was a cup of coffee. Tonight, they were treated with homemade bread pudding. Celestina glanced down at hers and then looked over at Papa. "I want more cream on mine," she announced.

Papa gave the server a stern look. "Send it back and bring it out with more cream."

Celestina shot a smug look over the table at Alessandra. Her sister quickly set her spoon down. "Papa," Alessandra said. "I also want—."

Mamma suddenly screeched. _"Dio mio!"_ she cried. "Nicholas!" She scooted back, the legs of her chair scraping harshly against the floor as she seized Papa's arm.

Celestina glanced at the floor. She noticed the small, brown form of a mouse. It was nibbling at the discarded piece of bread.

"Bon sang!" Papa hissed, rising to his feet. "Who was the cretin that left food on the floor? And how did vermin get in here? Someone call an exterminator _at once!"_

"Celestina, Alessandra—come here, darlings. Don't get too close to it," Mamma said, holding her hands out for the girls to take. Celestina got up from her chair and drew close to Mamma.

"Where's my pudding?" she asked.

"Oh, Celestina, cara mia, it's coming out soon. But you can't eat it in here. Alessandra, I said come here." Alessandra hadn't moved from her chair. She was still staring at the mouse, silent as ever. "Alessandra, listen to Mamma."

"Sorry, Mamma." The young girl scooted out of her chair and joined Celestina on the opposite side of their mother. Taking both of them by the hand, Emilia took them to the drawing room next door. "Don't worry, my darlings. Papa will take care of the mice so you won't have to see any more."

"But mice are living things!" Celestina argued.

"Cara, they don't belong in houses," her mother returned gently. She gave the both of them a warm smile. "Stay in here, okay? They'll bring your pudding out in just a moment." Dropping their hands, she went back into the dining room. Celestina could still hear Papa's voice coming from there. She let out an aggravated huff. Stupid mouse had to go and ruin dinner!

"Do you think they feel if they're living things?" the voice from beside her suddenly asked.

Celestina turned back to her sister. "What?"

"Mice," Alessandra said. "Do you think they've got some sort of way to feel things?"

"Like emotions? I thought only people had them."

"People are living things. You said mice are too."

"Yes, well…" Celestina wrinkled her nose at the thought of being compared to a little rodent. "It's not the same."

"Then you shouldn't talk about things you don't know."

"Who asked you?" Celestina suddenly snapped, her voice growing shrilly with irritation.

"I'm tired of you acting like some kind of know-it-all! You didn't even answer my question!"

The door opened and a server came through, carrying the bowl of bread pudding with a generous dollop of cream on it. Celestina glared at the server, hopping down from her chair. "You took too long!" she huffed before stamping out of the room.

As evening settled quietly over Milan, Celestina climbed the stairs up to her room. The sun had only set not too long ago, but Mamma once told her that a lady ought to retire to bed early because staying up late caused wrinkles.

Her room was down a short hallway on the second floor, with the only other door in that hall being the one across from it. As Celestina approached her bedroom, she hesitated when she saw that the door opposite to it—Alessandra's door—was slightly ajar. She heard a soft voice coming from within, though it was too quiet for her to make out the words.

With her curiosity piqued, Celestina went to the door and silently pushed it further open. She heard Alessandra murmuring softly.

"There, there," Alessandra was saying. "No need to make such a fuss."

Shrill, panicked squeaks accompanied her words. The distress Celestina heard in those dampened shrills disturbed her. Unable to linger outside any longer, she pushed the door wide opened and stepped in. The sight she beheld made her freeze.

The poor thing had been enticed to its doom by the fragrant pieces of leftover bread pudding, a few of which still lay scattered on the floor. The majority of the pudding remained in its small bowl, though the silver spoon that accompanied it was missing.

Alessandra sat cross-legged on the floor, leant forward to observe her work. Celestina's eyes lowered to see what was in front of her, and first spotted the severed mouse tail lying a few inches away from the rest of it.

Gold hairpins pinned each splayed leg to the floor, their pointed ends stabbed deep through the carpet. The trapped mouse wiggled fruitlessly, with each movement it screeched in agony.

Celestina could only stare in frozen horror. At that moment, Alessandra noticed her and turned her head slowly towards her sister. Apathetically, she lifted a hand. In it was the silver spoon.

"Look, Cellie," Alessandra said. "They _do_ feel things. It screams like a person." She flipped the spoon over, pressing the convex side down onto the mouse's back and pinning it down against the floor. Its struggling stopped, but the creature lifted its head and continued to shriek. Celestina felt the pounding of her heart in her throat. "Shhh, little mouse. You're so noisy." The spoon pressed down harder. The squeals became strained.

"Alessandra, stop it."

"You didn't answer my question, so I found out by myself. Come here—let's see what happens when I…" The spoon crushed down harder. The squealing stopped. Celestina saw something red come out and quickly turned away, covering her face in her hands.

"I said stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it! _Stop it, Alessandra!"_ Shakily, she lowered her shaking hands and dared to look back, mustering a glare as best as she could. "I'm… I'm telling Mamma!"

Alessandra dropped the spoon. She returned Celestina's petrified gaze with a cool, sinister one of her own. "You didn't knock before you came in," she said. "I don't like it when you do that."

"So?"

"You won't tell Mamma." It sounded like an order. Celestina pursed her lips. She wasn't one to let her own sister boss her around, but…

She wasn't going to tell Mamma. There was something that Celestina didn't like to think about, but it was hard not to at that moment.

The truth is, she was scared of Alessandra.

* * *

Christmastime was always that time of year when the Amonte household spared no expense. Last year, Nicholas had taken his family to Vatican City to see the St. Peter's Square Tree and attend the Christmas Eve Mass. This year, however, would be a more quiet Christmas—or at the very least, one that involved less packing. The girls, learning that they weren't being flown out anywhere, had grown petulant and only tempered down when their father promised more presents as compensation.

That year they planned to hold a massive Christmas party in their own home, and a grand affair it would be. Invitations were sent out several weeks in advance; down payments were made with wineries and breweries in France and Belgium to have their finest brought in. The kitchen staff was doubled with temporary help in anticipation of the leap in demand. For entertainment, a very prominent opera singer and string quartet were contracted to perform during the night. And, of course, there would be a point in the evening when the spotlight would be focused on two little guest stars.

Celestina was already fussing over which song she would play. She wanted one with words so that she could sing too. The more she could show off in front of Papa's guests, the better. She asked Alessandra if she'd chosen a song yet.

"No," Alessandra answered. "I was going to ask Signora Isabella for recommendations."

"Who?"

"The singer Papa hired. She's coming in this afternoon to do a rehearsal."

"Oh." Celestina put her hands on her hips. "She'll just tell you to play some kind of Christmas carol."

Alessandra shrugged. "Well, there's no harm in playing a Christmas song for a Christmas party."

"Fine, whatever."

Up until that afternoon, Celestina attempted to play it cool until the singer arrived. Alessandra had gone to talk to Signora Isabella during her break like some attention-seeking puppy while Celestina did her best resist the temptation to do the same. She liked to think she had a bit more pride than her sister. But she could only last so long before the resistance broke and she scurried off to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"It's a very tricky piece," she heard Isabella say, "but I've heard your papa say how very talented you are. I'm sure you can handle it."

"Thank you so much." It made Celestina want to roll her eyes how awe-struck Alessandra sounded. "I heard your singing earlier today. It was incredible."

"Oh!" Isabella chuckled. "Why, how very sweet of you! Do you sing, little one?"

"Mmhmm."

"Will you be singing at the party?"

There was a pause, and then Alessandra responded very quietly, "No."

"Oh, well… why not?"

Alessandra didn't answer, and after a while Isabella broke the silence. "It is your choice, after all. But just remember that if you've the talent, then don't let trepidation stand in the way. I think it's time to get back to the rehearsal, lest your papa send someone to herd me back. I look forward to seeing your performance, little one."

Celestina waited by the door to ambush Alessandra as she walked back out. She cut straight to the chase and asked, "Which song did the Signora choose for you?" Alessandra told her the name of the piece. "That one? Are you sure?"

"Yes," Alessandra said firmly, her face growing slightly defensive. "I need to start practicing now."

"Are you going to use the ballroom piano?" Celestina asked as her sister began walking away. "I want to use that one!"

"You haven't even picked a piece yet."

Celestina huffed. After hearing that conversation between Isabella and Alessandra, she knew exactly what she was going to play.


	18. Entirely Different Animal

The week leading up to the Christmas party was filled with nonstop preparations. Mamma and Papa were both busy overseeing the work of interior designers as they transformed the inside of the large house into a wonderland filled with hundreds of yards of garlands, poinsettias, candles, and lavishly trimmed evergreens.

Celestina wandered boredly through the rooms, gazing around at the festive decorations. She found a tray of peppermint macarons that had been set out for Mamma and Papa to sample and snatched one up to nibble as she continued to explore the rooms. In the distance, she heard the notes of the piano reverberating from the ballroom. It'd been a sound that had gone on nonstop for the past few days. Alessandra had long since mastered the piece to flawless perfection, though she was still frantically practicing like a worrywart amateur. Celestina sighed and turned her feet to follow the sound of the piano.

She stepped into the spacious ballroom, taking care not to let her footsteps tap too loudly against the polished wooden floor. Celestina needn't have worried, though—the notes from the piano covered any sort of separate noise as Alessandra's agitated fingers forcefully pushed them out.

She was over practicing. That made even the most skilled players revert back to mistakes, but Celestina hardly cared enough to warn her sister. Not that Alessandra would listen, anyway. She had always been like this before all of her past recitals.

Celestina herself had only practiced for a few days—just enough to polish out the mistakes. Both she and Alessandra had told Mamma which pieces they were playing and had her sit in for a few of their practices. But the piece she had named and let Mamma listen to wasn't the one Celestina would be playing that night, though no one was the wiser. Especially not Alessandra.

As she listened, Celestina leaned back against the wall. Alessandra, sat on the far end of the room with her back to her silent audience, continued to practice feverishly. The song was well played, though the tempo was slightly off. But then, towards the end of the piece, Celestina heard it. A slip of the finger. A wrong key.

A mistake.

The song was abruptly cut off. A loud, bursting discord exploded from the piano as Alessandra slammed her fists down on the keys. "No, no, _NO!"_ she shouted.

The temptation was far too seductive, and Celestina gave in to the cruel urge to taunt. "Uh oh," she preened, her voice echoing in the wide space. "Imagine if everyone heard you do that."

Alessandra quickly looked back, her eyes emblazoned in a way that made Celestina's heart jump. _"YOU!"_ Alessandra shrieked.

Quickly, Celestina pushed herself off the wall and raced out. She didn't stop until she had found the safety of Mamma, because whatever darkness Alessandra had could never seem to reach her then.

She found Mamma in the kitchen sampling a bottle of chardonnay with Papa. "This one is quite nice, Nicholas. We should definitely serve it," she was saying as Celestina hurried in.

"Mamma, Mamma!" the young girl yipped as she quickly pounced on her mother and threw her arms around the woman's waist.

"Oh!" Mamma cried softly, setting her glass down. "What is it, my little darling? Is Alessandra being mean again?"

"Mamma!" Celestina said, lifting her face to meet her mother's eyes. "I want to curl my hair before the party! Like Signora Isabella's hair!"

"Is that so?" Mamma knelt down, gently stroking Celestina's chestnut tresses. "You'd certainly look like a little angel with those flowing curls. Wouldn't she, Nicholas?" Mamma tilted her head slightly and smiled. "Are you sure, my darling? You and Alessandra have always worn your hair straight like this."

Celestina wrinkled her nose. "Just because Alessandra likes it," she pouted, "doesn't mean I do!"

"Okay, okay," Mamma soothed gently. "Don't you worry, Celestina. I'll have your hair just like you want it."

"Let me get a stylist to come in and—."

"Don't be silly, Nicholas," Mamma said. "I'll do it."

"Wh… Are you sure?"

"Yes," Mamma insisted. She lifted a hand and gently ran it against Celestina's cheek. "When I was a little girl, my mamma would always do my hair. I think it's important if I do it for my daughters too."

"Alessandra doesn't want hers curled," Celestina said. "Just me."

"Did you ask her?"

"Uh huh. She said she doesn't want us looking the same."

"Well…" Mamma paused, but only just for a second. "Alright then. Come on, cara—let's go try it out now, see if you like it."

"Okay!" Celestina chirped, taking her mother's hand. They went to the master bathroom where there was a big mirror for Celestina to watch her mother work in. Mamma took from one of the cabinets a curling iron.

"I used this for my own hair back when I wore it long," Mamma told Celestina as she plugged the device in and rested it on its stand. "It's been sitting forgotten for a long time—the last time I curled my hair was on my wedding day." Stepping behind Celestina, Mamma gently pulled the floral hairband from the girl's hair and ran a hand to smooth the locks. "I couldn't think of a more perfect way to bring this old friend out than for my little girl."

Celestina sat for about an hour, watching Mamma slowly transform her hair into a look she had never known before. She smiled, watching lock after lock fall in gentle curls over her shoulders.

Finally, Mamma put the curling iron down, gave Celestina's hair one more soft ruffle. She crouched down until her face was leveled with the girl's, and they both gazed into the mirror. Mamma's smile was dazzling. "Oh, cara mia," she whispered softly. "You look absolutely beautiful."

Celestina stared at her reflection. She looked almost different—in a good way, like a butterfly emerged from her cocoon. And she liked how happy it made Mamma.

But then a quiet voice from the doorway ruined that moment.

"Mamma?"

There stood Alessandra, standing just behind the threshold. Her eyes darted from Celestina to her mother. All was quiet. The confrontation had left Mamma without words, so Celestina spoke up instead.

"Look, Alessandra," she said, perking up a shoulder to push up her hair. "Look what Mamma did for _me."_

Her words did the trick. She saw Alessandra bite down on her lip. Her eyes grew glassy. _Always the crybaby_ , Celestina thought.

Suddenly, she felt Mamma's hands leave her shoulders. "Alessandra, amata mia, come here. Let Mamma—."

"No!" Alessandra suddenly shouted, her hands balling into fists. She took a step back from the threshold. "Leave me _alone_ , Mamma!" She turned and ran. From behind her, Celestina heard her mother pull in a shaky breath. Quickly, she knelt down to Celestina's level.

"Cara," Mamma said, gazing at Celestina with guilt-stricken eyes. "Why would you say something like that?"

"I'm sorry, Mamma."

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to your sister." Mamma stood up, stepping away to give Celestina room to get off her stool. "And tell her that if she wants her hair styled, I'll gladly do it for her. Be sure to tell her that, okay?"

"I will." As soon as Celestina left the master bathroom, she headed straight up to her room. She passed Alessandra's door without so much as looking at it and went to her own bathroom mirror to admire her hair.

* * *

Celestina finally got her answers as to why her sister was so high-strung about the upcoming Christmas party one afternoon while Alessandra herself was practicing her little heart out downstairs and left her room empty. Celestina had gone in there mainly out of boredom—and especially since it irked Alessandra whenever she did.

As she walked in, her eyes fluttered down to the patch of carpet where she had seen the grisly work her sister had made of that poor mouse. The beige carpet was spotless. Celestina wondered whether Alessandra had cleaned it up herself, or had coerced a servant into doing it for her and keeping quiet about it. To be honest, either seemed just as likely.

Celestina had found it a few days ago but hadn't gotten the window of opportunity to really sit down and read it until now. With Alessandra currently preoccupied, now was the perfect time.

Slipping a hand underneath the mattress, she found it just underneath the right side of the pillow. She pulled it out and looked down at the diary's leather face. The letters _A.A._ were dyed into the rich brown cover. Celestina took a second to trace the letters before opening the diary up and settling down onto the carpet to read.

Most of the pages were barely worth skimming over—oh, how boring they were. These mundane thoughts of Alessandra's, they could have put her to sleep. Celestina was mentioned a few times within these pages, and often furiously. These angry tirades made Celestina want to roll her eyes, and she continued on.

Within this diary, Alessandra frequently expressed how she saw herself as the black sheep of the family—a puzzle piece with no place to fit. At first, she fretted that perhaps it was her own fault. And then, with each turn of the page, each subsequent date, her views began to slowly change.

 _I am not the black sheep,_ Alessandra wrote. _I am a different animal entirely. Of what, I do not know. One that Mamma seems to fear. Maybe that's why she doesn't love me._

The latest entry in the diary was dated a week ago. _Mamma was true to her word in that she wanted us to perform at Papa's Christmas party. Performing in front of people, especially people Papa places such high importance in, always makes me nervous. I saw the list of invitees, and Francesco's parents were included. He'll be coming too, I'm sure. I'll be playing in front of him._

 _Cellie wanted to sing, and I was considering it too. But now I can't. We'll just get compared, and I know what always happens when we do._

 _I just need a complicated piece and play it well. Perhaps the singer Papa hired knows a good one. I heard she's famous. Loved. Maybe I'll be like that one day._

 _Whatever she suggests, I must practice it daily up until the party. This is farewell for now, caro diario, though only for a short while._

Celestina shut the diary and slipped it back under the mattress. Quietly, she stepped out from Alessandra's room and shut the door behind her. Ah, Francesco. So that was why Alessandra was so worked up.

Francesco Casale's father and Papa had been close friends since childhood. As such, their families often graced one another with visits and get-togethers. Francesco was two years older than both Celestina and Alessandra, and was the son of Signore Casale's second wife. His swept bronze hair and broad shoulders had already built him quite the fan base with the opposite sex by even the age of 12.

Celestina had never felt much towards Francesco. True, he was incredibly handsome. That, coupled with his passion for football, made him any girl's dream. But Celestina could tell that Francesco was becoming a chip off the old block, and there were plenty of rumors afloat claiming that Signore Casale was divorcing Francesco's mother on account of yet another mistress.

That Alessandra was part of Francesco's pitiable little fan club amused Celestina. She wondered how she ought to use this little nugget of information—because something this juicy just _had_ to be used, didn't it?

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Mamma and Celestina were up bright and early to work on her hair. This time, Mamma spritzed the locks with hairspray to keep the curls locked in. "Stay out of the kitchen, okay? It's very busy today. Papa is also going to be busy. You and Alessandra can play together until lunchtime—afterwards, you'll both need to get dressed. Try not to mess up your hair, cara." She gave Celestina a quick kiss on the temple. "Run along now."

Celestina raced back upstairs to find Alessandra. Her sister was in her room, standing in front of the mounted full-length mirror with a dress held up to her front. Alessandra swayed from side to side, letting the dress's skirt dance around her legs. She had the look of someone who had finally come to a decision after a long deliberation. A stack of other dresses was piled haplessly on the foot of her bed.

"Red, huh?" Celestina said aloud. Alessandra ignored her, still admiring the dress in the mirror. "I'm wearing red too."

Alessandra stopped swaying. She turned around and threw the dress onto the bed, where it fluttered down with the other discarded clothes. "I was just looking," she said. "I don't like it."

Celestina shrugged. "Don't want people mistaking us for one another? I don't think they will." She gave her curls a little bounce with her hand. Alessandra stared at them with an almost disgusted look.

"Why did you do your hair already? The party isn't until tonight."

"I couldn't wait," Celestina admitted. Alessandra walked out from in front of the mirror to sift through the other dresses in her closet. With the space free, Celestina moved in and examined her reflection. "I like wearing it like this. I'm going to curl my hair from now on—what do you think, Lessy?"

"I don't care. Do what you want," was the response from the closet.

"Are you going to practice any more today?"

"No…" There was a pause. "I think I'm ready."

The rest of the day felt like simply a waste of time getting in the way of their party. The festivities felt especially set in stone once the girls put on their dresses. Celestina wore the velvety, dark red one she had chosen, while Alessandra opted for a midnight blue one. When the sun began to drop and the guests started arriving, Celestina felt bubbly with excitement. She quickly ran to find Mamma. As she appeared at her mother's side, Mamma would introduce her to whomever she was talking to. They would give Celestina sweet little compliments, which she happily took.

"And what of your other one, Emi? Alessandra, wasn't it?"

"Oh, she's somewhere," Mamma said with a glance around.

"I'll go find her," Celestina offered, dropping her mother's hand and hurrying away. After walking around for a bit, she found Alessandra standing close to the front door with her hands clasped as though waiting for someone. "Lessy, stop hanging around here like a weirdo. Mamma wants us to meet her friends," Celestina said, grabbing Alessandra's hand. She felt resistance when she tried pulling her sister away.

"No… stop!" Alessandra protested. "I don't want to meet them!"

Celestina huffed. "That's rude! It'll only take a minute!"

Alessandra pulled back again, though her sister was slowly tugging her along. "I don't like standing next to you!"

Celestina rolled her eyes. "I _told_ you! It's just for a minute!" With a final yank, she tore her sister away from the doorway and headed back into the heart of the crowd gathered deeper inside the house. They found Mamma and her friends again. Though Alessandra stopped by Celestina's side, the girl refused to lift her eyes to meet theirs.

"Why hello there, Alessandra. You and your sister both look stunning tonight," they told her. Alessandra's brow furrowed, and she didn't respond. When silence was all they got, they looked at Emilia as though waiting for an answer to her daughter's rudeness.

Emilia smiled, thanked them for their kind words, and cheerily changed the topic by asking how their investment business was faring.

"Oh, some clients are nightmares," the woman closest to Emilia answered with an exasperated wave of her hand. "It's really just the few, but they're absolutely walking headaches. The returns they demand simply aren't possible!"

Celestina felt Alessandra leave her side. She turned, but her sister had already disappeared into the crowd. She had a feeling she knew what—or rather who—was making Alessandra so restless.

Quickly, Celestina shrugged it off. What was more important _now_ was strolling around, casually brushing and bumping against people and being seen. Then they'd recognize her as Papa's little girl—the daughter of the reason why they were here in the first place. And they'd have to say nice things to her. It was the attention she so rightly deserved.

She found Papa by the fireplace surrounded by a circle of loud men. Celestina dodged between two and impatiently tugged on her father's sleeve. "When do I get to play?" she asked him.

"Later in the evening, amour. Let everyone settle down and have a few more drinks," Papa answered. "I'm sure the kitchen is about to serve another helping of sweets and canapé. Go around and mingle. There are plenty of children here your age. Where's Alessandra?"

"I don't know," Celestina said. Her eyes fell on one of the men standing near Papa. "Is Francesco here?" she asked Signore Casale.

The man chuckled deeply and, instead of answering Celestina, said to Papa, "Looks like it's time for you to stay on high alert, Nicholas. That is, if you want your daughters to stay pure. I'm saying it now—I hold no responsibility over what my boy does. Couldn't stop him if I tried."

Papa snorted like Celestina had never heard him do before. "Had we this conversation five years ago I would have clocked you right in the nose for that, Antonio."

"Fine. I'll say it again once you've had a bit more to drink."

Celestina huffed, though the overall drone of the crowd hid the sound. Just because she'd asked about Francesco, didn't mean she was interested in him! But she couldn't say that to Signore Casale because he was an adult, and she was supposed to act like a lady. Instead, she turned to go find Alessandra. It was then she remembered Papa's words about the sweets from the kitchen and changed her mind.

But as she neared the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, she found a peculiar pair standing by them. Oh that silly Alessandra had her hands clasped behind her back as if she didn't look enough like a lovesick guppy. Leaning on the wall in front of her, dressed in a light blue dress shirt and red silk ascot, was Francesco with one hand pushed deep in the pocket of his gray chinos. The other held a champagne flute.

Celestina's eyes fell on the glass and golden liquid within as she approached the two. "Is that alcohol? You're drinking?" she asked. At her words, Francesco turned his head. He saw Celestina and quickly straightened up from the wall.

"Yeah? Papa's been letting me—says it's best to acquire the taste early. Here, try." He offered the flute to Celestina. She could practically feel Alessandra's stare as she watched their hands exchange the glass.

Celestina lowered her eyes to the golden, bubbly liquid. Papa had never expressed the same sentiment, and Mamma didn't allow them any alcohol. But whatever—they weren't watching now. She took a sip, felt the fizz on her tongue, and then wrinkled her nose at the taste that quickly followed. After swallowing, she said, "Bleck! Tastes like medicine—but worse!"

"What kind of medicine are you taking that tastes like champagne?" Francesco asked, taking the flute back. Then, he offered it to Alessandra who eagerly snatched it. She took a quaff from the flute, and then announced, "I like it!"

Francesco laughed lightly. "No one really likes the taste of alcohol at first."

"I do! Really!"

"Okay," Francesco accepted with a shrug. "To each their own. Hey." He beckoned around. "Your dad sure knows how to throw a party."

"Just you wait," Celestina replied enthusiastically. "Later on, we'll—."

"Shh!" Alessandra quickly hushed, throwing her sister a glare.

"Later on what?"

"Nothing," Alessandra said quickly. Suddenly, she grabbed Francesco's hand. "I'm hungry. Let's go see what's on the table."

"Er…" Francesco looked hesitant.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing—it's just that…" Giving up, Francesco said, "Never mind. Let's go." Before Alessandra managed to pull him away, he looked back at Celestina. "I like your hair."

That compliment stuck with her, and she continued thinking about it until Mamma approached her and told her that she and Alessandra would be performing after Signora Isabella's next song. They found Alessandra still with Francesco and pulled her away.

Isabella, the piano, and the string quartet were nestled in the corner of the ballroom, though the music was able to reach the entire room. Just on the outskirts of the clearing, the twin girls stood anxiously. Celestina turned and quietly said to Alessandra, "You can go first."

"Me? Why me?"

"I'm… I'm still nervous," Celestina lied. She saw suspicion waver in Alessandra's eyes, but it passed and she agreed. As soon as Isabella's song was finished, she and the quartet exited the little space to make way for Nicholas. The man made way for his daughters by not-so-humbly bragging about their musical talents, the private lessons they had been exceling even at early ages, and how the esteemed guests tonight would be graced by their performances. Finally, when they came to the cue for one of the girls to step up, Alessandra shot Celestina one last nervous glance as she broke away from the crowd.

Celestina joined the rest in applauding politely, shooting the people around her a smug look that she struggled to conceal.

As soon as fingertips touched to ivory keys, even the whispers dampened. Gone was the panicked girl from days prior, frantically rehearsing herself to breaking point. The one who was there now touched the keys as though born to—as though the instrument itself was a being for her to command.

Celestina, of course, had to admit that what she heard was spectacular. But the song itself deserved some credit—it would've sounded beautiful even played from a novice's hands. She waited quietly for the song to end. When it did, she clapped with the rest only because people were watching. Alessandra looked quite pleased with herself. She seemed to drink in the ovation, basking in its warmth while it lasted.

The piano bench seemed to beckon her as Celestina approached it—a magnetic pull that was inescapable. Silently, she lamented the fact that she would be blind to the audience's reaction as soon as her first notes hit the air. Oh well, her imagination would have to suffice.

Guests that night had expected two songs—each dazzling in their own right—but what they found after listening to the preluding chords was a performance that mirrored its predecessor. There were confused looks exchanged. No one, however, spoke up out of courtesy. Among them, one little girl's face slowly darkened.

Alessandra's song, of course, had originally been written as a piano piece. But years later accompanying lyrics had been added by a separate artist to compliment it. Voice had been married with piano notes into a duet. And it was with voice that Celestina outshined her sister using her very own song.

But the audience didn't see it that way. Perhaps, they reasoned, they had planned to play the same piece as a sort of tribute to the fact that they were twins. Perhaps Nicholas and Emilia had put them up to it. Whatever the reason, the Amonte girls were now in a place to be compared.

And one thing always happened when they were compared. One would always outshine the other.

Celestina was finally able to look out towards the faces at the end of her song. Alessandra was no longer where she had been standing. But Francesco was.

Mamma, of course, came up to her when enough of the crowd had meandered away. In a low voice, she confronted Celestina about the song. "That wasn't the one you told me you would play."

"So?" Celestina countered. "That's the one I _wanted_ to play."

Mamma stared. "Why do you keep doing this to your sister?"

"Doing what?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Celestina. She has trouble enough getting along with anyone. Don't make it harder for her."

Celestina glared up at Mamma. She didn't know what overcame her at that moment, but the words sprung out before she could even consider what she was saying. "I'm not afraid of her," she said defiantly. "Not anymore. Not like you are."

She saw the authority drop from Mamma's face. "Why would you say—I'm not—."

"Celestina!" bashfulness peeked from Francesco's voice as the boy quickly hurried up to them. He looked between her and Mamma, suddenly hesitating. In that instant, Mamma smoothed her expression over and walked away.

Francesco watched her retreating back, and then looked at Celestina. "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine," Celestina assured. "Mamma was just asking me if I wanted to play another song. But I'm done for tonight."

"You should have said yes," Francesco said. "You were amazing. I'd love to hear you sing again."

"Oh really?" Celestina purred. She smiled. "You're sweet. So you liked my version better than Alessandra's?"

"Well…" Francesco quickly glanced around, and then continued in a low voice, "A little."

"I knew it!" Celestina suddenly exclaimed smugly, making Francesco jump. Without another word to him, she turned away and headed into the crowd. She knew everyone here thought the same as Francesco. That truth was what had upset Mamma. But why should Celestina be ashamed of what was simply a fact? Should she have to apologize for the way the sun always rose in the east and set in the west? Besides, it wasn't like Alessandra would ever—.

"You hardly ever practiced it." The voice was soft, filled with a quiet, white rage that Celestina heard above even the cacophony of chatter across the room. She stopped. Standing in her way was Alessandra. Thin locks escaped from her hairpins, now having fallen forward into her face. "And you played it just as well as me."

"Well," Celestina replied. "Maybe you wouldn't be stuck in my shadow if you tried stepping out of it for once."

Alessandra took a step forward. At that moment, Celestina caught a glimpse of something in her eyes—something that wasn't her sister. Something that didn't even seem human. A different animal entirely.

"You better be careful, little mouse," Alessandra uttered softly.

Celestina froze, her eyes widening. "What did you just call me?" she demanded frantically, but Alessandra had walked past her and disappeared into the crowd.


	19. Woman at the Rails

"Hands off please, cara. This one isn't for you."

The words seemed entirely foreign to her as Celestina withdrew her hands from the ornately wrapped present. Around it was a grand assortment of other gifts that had been placed neatly under the tall living room evergreen.

On Christmas morning, a servant had woken the girls up, announcing that La Befana—the kind old witch that flew all across Italy the night before Christmas to deliver presents to the good children—had left heaps upon heaps for them. Celestina had been the first out of the two to ready up and race downstairs, having not bothered to change out of her nightgown. Mamma and Papa were already there—Papa was lounging on a nearby armchair to watch while Mamma was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Which ones are mine? I want to open them now!" Celestina insisted, dropping down to crawl under the sprawled lower branches of the evergreen. It was then her eyes had fallen on a beautiful box wrapped in red with gold trimmings. Automatically, she had reached for it, and that was when Mamma spoke up.

"Not for me?" Celestina repeated. "Who is it for then? Alessandra?"

"Yes, so leave it for her to unwrap."

"But _I_ want it!"

Mamma's eyes flashed. A gentle glare adorned her face as she said, "That is Alessandra's present, not yours. Don't touch it."

The look on Mamma's face immediately made Celestina pipe down, but obstinacy fueled by years of being treated with very little denial made her act up again. This time, she shot a look at Papa as she loudly protested, "Papa, I want this present! Make Alessandra give it to me!"

This time, however, Papa did not bend to her will. "Look here, these are your presents, my dear. Look how big this one is. Why don't you open it first?"

Celestina gave into Papa's suggestion and scooted over to the box that stood at nearly two feet tall. She gripped the seam of the wrapping paper and tore it diagonally down. From the partially revealed picture on the box, it appeared to be some sort of large dollhouse set.

She had just pulled off the last of the wrapping paper from the dollhouse when Alessandra rushed into the living room. "You started without me?" she pouted, also dropping down onto her hands and knees to get to the presents.

"Because you were too slow!" Celestina shot back, turning the box around so she could examine its front.

"Here—this is one of yours, cara," Mamma told Alessandra, handing her a present wrapped in gold. "Look how many there are this year! Looks like you two were especially good for La Befana, weren't you?" When Alessandra took the present, one of Mamma's hands reached up to stroke her hair. It was then Alessandra's eyes snapped up to her mother. Suddenly, Mamma's smiled faltered for just a heartbeat and her hand quickly pulled back before she regained her composure and gently caressed Alessandra's hair. Alessandra ignored her mother as she placed the present in her lap and carelessly ripped the wrapping apart.

This year, La Befana had gotten them a plethora of toys, jewelry, and sweets. When everything had been unwrapped, leaving only discarded strands of ribbon and wads of wrapping paper, Celestina sat back with one of her boxes of Swiss chocolate and began nibbling on a few pieces.

"Alessandra," Mamma said, reaching under the tree. "There's one more here for you." Celestina stopped chewing on her chocolate when she recognized the red paper and gold trim.

"Why is this one different?" Alessandra asked, taking the present. Celestina could tell that despite its small size, it seemed rather heavy.

"Because," Mamma answered, "this one isn't from La Befana. This one is from me."

Alessandra suddenly paused. "For me?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Open it up."

Alessandra looked down at her present, and then slowly peeled away at the paper. The beautiful red and gold wrapping gave way to a wooden box. Around the box were the carved reliefs of the scenic Italian countryside—gently rolling hills dotted with bushy trees and blooming crocuses. Alessandra took a moment to trace the carved wood. As she did, Mamma said, "I've had this since I was a little girl. A few years ago, it broke, and since then it's been sitting forgotten in the back of my closet. Last week I had a friend who's a watchmaker take a look at it and get it working again."

"Why would you need a watchmaker to fix a wooden box?"

"Open the lid, Alessandra."

Carefully, the little girl did as her mother said. As the lid was lifted, mechanisms within the box raised a small platform up into view. Atop it was a small ballerina standing on tiptoe with one leg lifted and her arms poised elegantly in the air. When the platform clicked into place, additional unseen gears within the box began to turn. Soft, sweet notes of a song emerged from within the box. Celestina immediately recognized the melodic lullaby—Fa La Nana Bambin. When they had been younger, Mamma would gently sing it to them on the nights they had trouble sleeping.

As she watched the ballerina spin slowly on her platform to the music, Celestina grew sick with envy. But that wasn't the end of it.

"There's a little drawer at the bottom. See the handle?" Mamma pointed out. "I left something in there for you too." Alessandra found the knob and pulled the drawer out. Reaching in, she plucked out a necklace. Its row of pearls glistened in the light. At the sight of it, Celestina scowled while Alessandra's eyes lit up. Mamma took the necklace and draped it around Alessandra's neck.

"It's said in ancient folklore that pearls are the crystallized tears of the gods," Mamma said. Alessandra gingerly touched the round, milky white gems at her collarbones.

Unable to control herself any longer, Celestina leapt up to her feet. "That's stupid!" she snapped. Startled eyes shot towards her, and she continued, "That box is stupid! That necklace is stupid!"

"Celestina," Mamma said firmly. "A lady does not speak in that tone. Apologize."

"Why didn't you get _me_ a present?"

"Alessandra deserves it more than you do," Mamma replied. "Especially after what you did last night in front of everyone."

"That's not _fair!"_

"Celestina." This time it was Papa, his voice growing formidable.

"I hate you all!" Celestina said, kicking over a nearby box. She pointed at her sister. "You ruined Christmas, Lessy!" Before Mamma or Papa could say anything else, she ran upstairs to her room and slammed her door.

* * *

The Christmas Day tantrum seemed like a distant memory as the two sisters walked hand-in-hand down the busy sidewalk. Three days had passed since Christmas, and already the holiday cheer had wilted away to make way for anticipation of the new year.

Today was chilly with overcast clouds. The two girls were dressed in fur parkas with frilly scarves and knee-high boots. Their mother, her hands hidden deep in the pockets of her long white trench coat, followed behind them.

It was a quiet, leisurely day. Mamma had taken the girls out for a stroll down the high streets of Milan to window shop the many shops and get manicures at the salon.

Alessandra was quiet as she walked, holding the wool-clad hand of her sister. Her breath came out in soft white puffs in front of her face. She could feel the weight of the pearl necklace on her skin underneath the scarf.

As they passed under the shadow of a building, Alessandra suddenly stopped. She looked up at the pale walls of the building next to them. Beside her, Celestina also paused and glanced at her sister. Then, she too looked up.

The building had several windows and, not including its topmost tower, stood at three stories tall. It really didn't stand out at all compared to the plethora of dramatic, ancient architecture neighboring it. Alessandra couldn't tell what it was that compelled her to ask, "Mamma, what's this place?"

"This?" Mamma said, coming to a slow stop behind the girls. "It's a cathedral, cara. The… let's see… ah, the San Bernardino."

"I want to go inside," Alessandra proclaimed.

"No, I don't want to go into some boring old church! We're supposed to go shopping!" Celestina protested.

"We have all day to do that," Mamma said. "Let's go inside and warm up a little. Besides, I'm curious too—we've passed this several times but have never gone in."

Celestina huffed but continued to hold Alessandra's hand as they headed off the main street and dipped into a small alleyway between the church and its neighboring building. They found a small set of dark-colored double doors and went inside.

The main room of the church was radiant with its ivory walls. A myriad of paintings adorned the walls, from small ovular ones to grand ones that were several feet tall. Chairs were organized in rows at the center of the room, all facing towards the grand altar at the end.

Aside from the three of them, the church appeared to be completely empty. They took a few moments to circle the room and look at the various paintings depicting biblical scenes. There were also portraits—likely those of notable priests and noblemen. Then, Mamma beckoned for the girls to follow her and took a seat on one of the chairs. "Come now, darlings," she said. "Let's take a moment for prayer."

Celestina sat next to Mamma, and Alessandra next to her. Mamma and Celestina both bowed their heads, their hands folded over one another on their laps. Alessandra too lowered her head. But instead of praying, she kept her eyes open as she stared at her hands resting atop her lap. Slowly, she lifted her head to peek at Mamma and Celestina. They still hadn't moved.

Her gaze gravitated towards the right and settled on the entrance to a small corridor. Alessandra stared, puzzled, and wondered why she hadn't noticed it the first time they had gone around the room. She quickly shot Mamma and her sister another quick glance before quietly scooting off her chair. Careful to keep her steps from echoing in the grand chamber, Alessandra went towards the entrance of the corridor. She looked down and noticed how the ugly concrete beneath her boots eventually made way for hundreds upon hundreds of small, multi-colored tiles. They were like stars, she realized. She was walking on stars.

Alessandra suddenly noticed she was no longer walking through a corridor, given that the close walls had opened up She looked up and stopped in her tracks. Her eyes climbed the walls. Hundreds of empty sockets seemed to stare back at her.

The cathedral that sat largely unnoticed on the side of one of Milan's main streets had, several centuries ago, been built on an ancient hospital site. When a plague had swept across the city, the church had housed a large number of patients. It fast became over encumbered with the sick and, eventually, the dead. When there was no more room in the connected cemetery, one room in the church had been converted into an ossuary. The cathedral's full name was La Chiesa San Bernardino alle Ossa.

The Saint Bernard Church to the Bones.

Alessandra took another tentative step towards the center of the room, turning her head to observe every wall. Covering entire spans of the walls were dark brown bones and skulls arranged decoratively like the paintings in the main chamber—like macabre works of art.

It was deathly quiet. Alessandra couldn't even hear her own footsteps as she stepped over to the nearest wall. Behind thin, metal grating were rows upon rows of skulls. Alessandra stopped in front of a particular one and cocked her head.

"You were a person, weren't you?" she asked softly. "With eyes in those sockets and a brain in that head? A face over that hideous skull? Were you pretty? Did people like you? Were you mean to your sister?" The skull didn't respond. Alessandra giggled softly to herself.

A soft gasp caught her attention. Alessandra looked over at the corridor entrance and saw Celestina, her hands over her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the walls. Celestina took a step back, and softly uttered, "Are those real?"

"Yes," Alessandra said, looking affectionately back at her skull companion.

"That's gross! It's so gross! Why are there so many?"

"Don't be silly, Cellie," Alessandra chided, looking around. "It's pretty."

"Pretty?" Celestina repeated. She took another step back, slowly hiding in the shadow of the corridor. "I… I don't want to be here. It's like they're looking at me. C-come on, Mamma says we're going shopping now." Quickly, she turned and retreated back towards the main chamber.

Alessandra hesitated, taking another moment to take in the sights within the ossuary. Suddenly, she smiled. "She's scared of you," she said, her voice echoing in the still room. The skulls remained a silent audience. Alessandra turned and bent down, coming face to face with the skull behind the grate. "Isn't that funny?" She heard Mamma's voice calling from down the corridor and hurried towards it.

* * *

She didn't know how to respond to the sheepish look that crossed over Francesco's face. His lingering silence gave her a bad feeling, and her cheeks were slowly growing hot with embarrassment. Alessandra wished she could've had a way to take back words already spoken.

"Um…" Francesco began.

"It's okay," Alessandra replied lightly. "Some other time, maybe?"

"Er… yeah… maybe," Francesco said with a small shrug.

Alessandra smiled, trying desperately to hide her panic. "Okay. I'll… I'll see you later, Francesco."

"Yeah, sure," the boy replied quickly, suddenly turning away and leaving Alessandra alone by the canal. Dropping her smile, Alessandra stared blankly out into the water. She felt as though her world was crashing down around her. It might as well have been. To a 15-year-old, there was nothing more important than her crush. Especially if that crush was Francesco, the man of her dreams. She didn't know how things could get much worse.

And it did.

The chauffer had just pulled up in front of the house and allowed Alessandra to get out of the car. Dangling from her hand was the cute little bag that held the box of pastries from the bakery. Alessandra walked up the remaining stretch of the long driveway. As she passed by a row of topiary, she spotted a familiar motor scooter parked by the steps leading up to the front door. Eyes wide, Alessandra's heart began hammering as she raced inside. The main foyer was empty, but there were voices coming from upstairs.

When she went up and turned the corner, Alessandra heard a door close. She realized the sound had come from where her and Celestina's rooms were. Her excitement dwindled as she slowly made her way towards that short hallway. When she came upon the two doors, she saw that hers was ajar, as she'd left it earlier that day. Celestina's was closed. Alessandra turned her ear in the direction as she slowly crept towards it. She heard her sister. There was also a male voice.

Her heart dropped. Suddenly, Alessandra recklessly rushed to Celestina's door and threw it open. She found herself confronting two people perched atop the foot of the bed. Her mouth dropped slightly open as she met Francesco's eyes. The front of his shirt was unbuttoned and he had his arms around her sister.

Alessandra felt as though she couldn't breath in that moment. She closed her mouth, and then parted them to shakily whisper, "You two were… but you said… you said we…"

Celestina suddenly sprang up. "Lessy!" she screeched. "You're not supposed to be here. Get out!"

When Alessandra started crying, Francesco looked uncomfortable. "Maybe I should go," he suggested quietly.

"She was going to find out eventually!" Celestina shot back, walking towards the door. "I said get out!"

"How could… why would you do this, Cellie?" Alessandra sobbed. "You knew! You knew that I—!"

"We've been dating for two months now! He likes me! He doesn't like you! He told me he thinks you're creepy!" Celestina advanced towards Alessandra, making her back up. She placed a hand on the door. "But it's okay—at least you have that necklace from Mamma, don't you?" The door slammed shut.

The paper bag fell from Alessandra's hand and crashed on the ground. She hardly gave it a second look as she raced back downstairs, out the door, and around to an abandoned side of the house. There, she sat with her back pressed against the wall and her knees drawn up to hide her face.

 _I hate her! I HATE HER!_

Celestina's words rang endlessly in her head. Francesco never liked her? But all those times… pointless. And he'd never told her, never bothered to break her heart the right way.

Alessandra lifted her head, staring with eyes as blank as they had been when they'd gazed into the canal. Not even Francesco liked her. No one did. So this was what it meant to be the entirely different animal.

* * *

In the spring of 1999 came the Amonte girls' seventeenth birthdays. Two Bugattis—one red and the other silver—were rolled into the garage under the cover of night. Of course, it wasn't long before they were discovered. How the girls begged for Papa to let them start driving already. They hadn't gotten their licenses yet, but they argued they had already learned all they needed to know. Just one quick little drive, they pleaded. Maybe two. Maybe a few more, without Papa knowing of course.

At first, Papa was steadfast. Quickly, however, his determination broke down and he let his daughters drive their cars—but only for a short lap around the house. Celestina and Alessandra were beside themselves with excitement. They jumped and squealed at the sight of the cars with their sleek designs and signature swoop along the sides. And getting behind the wheel was even better. The purr of the engine was subtle, belying its power. Just a touch on the accelerator sent the car flying smoothly without the driver behind the wheel so much as jolting.

Mamma and Papa stood on the front porch, watching Celestina zoom her red car around the circular driveway. They looked pleased at first, but Papa's hands flew up to grasp the sides of his head and Mamma's face turned ashen when the Bugatti nearly drove into the side of the house.

Alessandra was a bit more careful, not getting anywhere close to clipping anything. But as she sped back around to the front of the house, she drifted around the turn. Her back tires left a pair of thick black trails on the impeccable white concrete, which made Papa cover his face.

The girls rushed up to him, this time begging to drive again. Papa gave a weary smile. "Not today, bien-aimés, Come on inside, now. Let's leave the excitement for the party, shall we?" The birthday party for the Amonte girls was to be held in a few days' time. Papa had reserved the largest dining room in one of Milan's most extravagant, high-end restaurants.

Just like with every large event Alessandra's parents hosted, many of the guests would be unknown to her—friends of Mamma and Papa, some politicians she hardly cared about, and maybe a few people famous for one thing or another. Despite this, she was excited. That day was going to be _for her_ , and that's what made it special even if she had to share it with Celestina.

Since that day she had found her with Francesco, Alessandra had tried her hardest to look past it all. She told herself that Celestina was not worth all the hate and agony. And somewhere out there, a better Francesco was waiting for her. One that would blow the old cruddy one dating her sister out of the water.

On the morning of the party, Alessandra went out to the salon to have her hair and makeup done. She was, of course, keeping her hair straight but had the stylist treat and flatiron it until it gleamed in the light and swayed like the hem of her empire-waist dress. Palettes upon palettes of makeup were brought out, presenting endless combination of colors. "Soft, innocent colors are good for a young girl like you," the stylist told her. "Nothing too strong, too dramatic. You're already a pretty little thing, and we don't want too much color covering that up."

"I want to meet someone," Alessandra told the woman.

"Oh, you won't have any trouble doing that," the stylist replied, dabbing the golden brown eye shadow onto her brush. "Take it from me—you'll want to carry a baton with you to fend off the hordes."

"A baton? That's not very lady-like," Alessandra said, imagining Mamma's face at the very idea of her daughter carrying such a distasteful weapon.

A sly smile pulled up the corner of the stylist's lips as she leaned forward. Alessandra closed her eyes and felt the soft bristles of the brush dab against her eyelid. "You know what a lady ought to do? Whatever the heck she wants." There was a pause as the stylist reloaded her brush. "But all jokes aside, I do wish you a very happy birthday, Signorina. I'm sure tonight is going to change your life."

When the stylist was finished, she let Alessandra look at herself in the wide mirror. She was happy with the way she looked—let Celestina have her curls. Reaching up, Alessandra touched the cold, round pearls resting just above her sequin-lined collar. She left the salon with her leather clutch handbag and stepped into the car that would bring her to the restaurant. During the ride, Alessandra pulled on her silver ankle-wrap stilettos. Then she sat back and took a deep breath. She watched Milan pass by the window and thought about what the stylist had told her.

After a few more minutes, the driver announced, "We're here, Signorina." The car pulled up to the front of the grand restaurant. Alessandra waited for the driver to come around the car and open her door. She took the hand offered, letting one stiletto touch the ground followed by the other.

"Happy birthday, Signorina Alessandra. At half past 12 I'll be here at front to take you and Signorina Celestina home."

Alessandra walked inside. The hostess led her past the main dining area and to the large reserved room in the back. There, Alessandra realized that Celestina had not arrived yet. The guests who had already arrived were in standing clusters around the room. Chatter filled the air. Alessandra could see Papa at the very front of the room surrounded by a group of unfamiliar people.

With her eyes darting from one stranger to another, Alessandra held her bag to her side and stepped forward into the dining room. Immediately, she spied a band of teenage boys. The ones facing her stopped their conversations at the sight of her, causing the others to look. Quickly, Alessandra lowered her eyes so they wouldn't know she had been watching and made a show of walking to one of the round, cloth-covered tables to take a seat. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the boys talk amongst themselves. One foot tapped against the floor as she waited.

Finally, one of them peeled away from the others. He took his time making his way over to Alessandra's table, trying to be as subtle as he could. Finally, he stopped by her. "You're, uh, Amonte, right? Happy birthday."

Alessandra looked up and smiled. "You're so sweet, you know."

The boy turned a bright shade of red. Alessandra wasn't used to such a reaction—it seemed more like the way Celestina would've been treated. _Could you be my better Francesco?_ Alessandra sat up and asked the boy for his name. He introduced himself as Riccardo.

He wasn't bad, though his combed, straw-colored hair was starting to fall apart in certain places. Alessandra didn't mind the messy look. Maybe, she told herself, it was what she preferred. Smiling coyly, Alessandra sat back and crossed her legs. "Riccardo," she said sweetly. "I'm a little thirsty—can you go get me a glass of strawberry moscato?"

At her request, the boy immediately sprang up. "Sure," he said quickly. "I'll, uh, yeah, I'll be right back."

Left alone, Alessandra snuck a glance at the group of boys Riccardo had come from. She could tell from the way they quickly turned away that they had been watching her. Any one of them could be her Francesco, really. They were keen on her, and she could tell. Tonight had been the night she'd waited for her all her life—the night she'd finally know what it felt like to be loved.

It was a few minutes later when Alessandra spotted Riccardo making his way back to her, a glass of bubbly pink liquid in his hand. Smiling expectantly, Alessandra sat up and placed her hands on her knees. Suddenly, she saw Riccardo's eyes flicker away. He seemed to do a double take, and then stopped in his tracks as he stared towards the dining room entrance.

Alessandra looked. She wished she hadn't—because when she did, all her hopes of tonight being perfect were dashed.

She looked absolutely gorgeous in her dark red, long-sleeved bodycon dress. It hugged her figure in a way that seized attention. Her hair fell in elegantly curls down over one shoulder. And worst of all, she was laced arm-in-arm with the young man she walked in with. It broke Alessandra's heart to see how beautiful they both looked, twisting it until the pain made her want to scream out.

Looking around, she saw that Riccardo hadn't been the only one to stop what he was doing and stare. Unable to look any longer, she tore her gaze away. She saw Riccardo blink and seemingly return to the present. He didn't appear to notice how Alessandra glared as he continued to her table until he reached her. He offered her the glass and was startled when she suddenly jumped up to her feet, snatched up her handbag, and stormed away without a word.

The guests were given another half hour and mingle and allow the latecomers to arrive. When it was time to sit down for the starters, they moved towards the circular tables to take their seats. Alessandra refused to sit at the same table as her sister and moved across the dining room to find one a good distance away.

She did, and noticed how the gathering still remained at Celestina's side. When she and Francesco chose a table, the other seats around it quickly filled. When there was no more room at that table, adjacent ones were quickly claim. Slowly, guests moved across the rooms towards Alessandra, but more out of necessity to find empty seats.

Her fingers were white as she clutched the handbag in her lap. She stared down at the painted plate and silver cutlery lain out in front of her. Movement out of the corner of her eye told her someone had sat next to her. She looked up and saw Mamma.

"What are you doing all the way over here? Why aren't you sitting with Celestina?"

"This was supposed to be _my_ birthday too," Alessandra mumbled.

"It still is. What are you talking about?" Mamma's concerned stare did little save irk Alessandra, and so she stared down at the plate again. "I saw you talking to a boy earlier, cara. He seemed nice. What was his name?"

 _"Mamma,"_ Alessandra growled. Immediately, her mother dropped her questions. She sat up and painted a pleasant look over her face as people began taking seats around them.

As the courses were served, Alessandra found herself quite without appetite and lifelessly picked at her food. There was a lot of laughter coming from Celestina's table, though she didn't dare look over there. Quickly, Alessandra flagged over a waiter and asked for a glass of red. When it was brought to her, she downed it quickly. Mamma frowned and guests looked uncomfortably away. When the glass was empty, Alessandra asked for another.

"Cara," Mamma said quietly.

"Lay off, Mamma! This is my birthday!" Alessandra snapped. Another burst of laughter came from the other side of the room. Alessandra was getting absolutely _sick_ of that sound as she emptied her second glass.

Dessert was simply a serving of small profiteroles, as the kitchen had promised a grand birthday cake to follow shortly after. Alessandra had sent the waiter away with the order for a third glass of wine when a dark red figure sauntered cheerily to her side. "Come on, Lessy!" Celestina chirped, grabbing Alessandra's arm. "Papa wants us to take photographs up front together! Let's go—before the cake comes out!"

Alessandra was too tipsy to argue. Besides, the sooner she got this over with, the better. She carelessly tossed her handbag onto the table. It hit the edge of her plate, causing the dessertspoon to clatter loudly. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor as she stood and was pulled in tow behind her sister.

The front of the dining room had been decorated elegantly with a series of draping tapestries, flowers, candles, and a large banner that read BUON COMPLEANNO. The girls stopped under the banner and posed according to the quick, snappish orders the photographer gave. The camera seemed to snap nonstop, at least to Alessandra's muddled ears. Finally, the flow of orders stopped. Beside her, Celestina began clapping her hands and jumping up and down. "Oooh, how beautiful!" she squealed.

The cake was being wheeled through the dining room towards the front. It was a two-tiered work of art—covered in soft, pale pink frosting. At the top was a bouquet of iced flowers, and the sides were decorated with lattice hearts made from fondant.

Celestina rushed up to it. Alessandra lagged behind and slowly made her way towards it. She was still aware of the camera's clicking. The waiter who had wheeled it out was now placing the small, silver candles intricately around the cake. When each was lit, the room dimmed. The air came alive as voices from all around the room sang. Celestina held her hands clasped in front of her chest. Alessandra stared at the flickering flames.

When the song was over, both girls leaned forward to blow out the candles. As Alessandra took her breath, she heard Celestina blow and saw the candles in front of her face quickly go out. Startled, she straightened up. With a scowl, she glared at Celestina. Upon seeing her sister's face, Celestina rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud," she dismissed. "You were too slow! Come on!" She picked the knife up. "Let's cut the cake! Oh, but…" She made a show of holding the knife against herself as she gazed down at the cake. "It's too pretty. I don't want to cut into it."

The guests laughed, much to Alessandra's bewilderment. There had been nothing funny about what Celestina had said.

"Come on, Lessy!" Celestina had raised the knife and held it still over the cake. Quickly, Alessandra reached forward and placed her hand over her sister's on the knife handle. She noticed Celestina beaming towards the photographer's raised camera and managed to force up a smile just in time as the click sounded.

As soon as the picture was taken, Alessandra pushed down. The knife sank through the cake until it hit the very bottom.

"Oh, you ruined it!" Celestina gasped.

"It's just a _cake."_

"First slice is mine!" Celestina quickly claimed, pulling the knife out of Alessandra's hand. It was passed to the waiter, who began cutting and passing out slices. The first two were given to the sisters, and as soon as Alessandra got hers she retreated back to her table. The glass of red she had ordered was waiting for her there. She finished that before she finished her cake. Now fairly intoxicated, Alessandra sat back in her chair and leaned a head heavily against her hand. Someone approached and sat in the chair next to her. It was Riccardo. Alessandra shot him an unamused glance out of the corner of her eye and she reached out and gripped her empty wine glass.

"Hey," he began, "how's your weekend looking? Because I was thinking maybe…"

Alessandra's eyes slid past him and looked to the other side of the room. Celestina and Francesco were standing at the front. She watched as Francesco fed her sister a bite of cake, and then they both laughed. The grip on the wine glass tightened.

Suddenly, she was furious. She was furious at the boy next to her for not being Francesco. She was furious at everyone for treating this like Celestina's birthday and not hers, and she was _furious_ at Celestina for stealing this perfect night away from her.

"Get lost!" Alessandra suddenly snapped to Riccardo. He looked startled.

"Wh—?"

"I said get. _Lost!_ "

"Hey, hey, cool it!" Riccardo shot back. He stood up and, before leaving, said, "I can see why you're the single one."

Alessandra gritted her teeth. Her eyes flew back to the front of the room. Rising to her feet, she kept the wine glass in her tight grip as she stormed towards her sister. Tears poured unrestrained from her eyes, pushing dark streaks down her face.

"Cellie!" she screamed. Eyes flew to her. Celestina and Francesco looked from one another to her. "This was supposed to be _my_ birthday too!"

"Lessy?" Celestina said, scoffing airily. "You're a mess. How much did you drink?"

"You always just take and take and take! You've stolen everything from me! I'm sick of it! _It's my birthday too!"_ She suddenly threw down the wine glass. It shattered loudly on the floor.

The sudden force of the slap whipped her head to the side. A stinging pain rippled across her face. Alessandra let out a shaky breath and slowly reached up to her burning cheek. Celestina pulled back her hand. "Look what you've done to Papa!" she hissed. "In front of everyone! You're an embarrassment."

Alessandra stared at her sister, and then to the aghast faces around her. Not daring to look at Papa and Mamma, she quickly bolted through the tables and out of the dining room. She didn't stop, darting past startled waiters and patrons, until she had burst out the front door and into the night air.

She couldn't go to the driver—he would only take her home, and Alessandra wanted to go anywhere but there. She ran down the street, pushing and bumping through people until the restaurant was far behind her. It was only then that Alessandra slowed, and then turned to see the headlights zipping past her. She lifted a hand and waved until one pair slowed and pulled up next to her.

The taxi driver switched off the light to his sign as Alessandra climbed into the back. When he asked for an address, Alessandra hesitated. Then, she told him to take her out of Milan.

"Pardon, Sigorina?"

"Just take me away from here!" Alessandra burst out. "Far, far away from here!"

"Alright, Sigorina, take a deep breath. I'll take you home—what's your address?"

Alessandra gave him one that was on the opposite side of the city from where she lived. The driver pulled back onto the road. As they cut through Milan, Alessandra tried to steady her breathing. She wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her fingers.

"What seems to be the problem?" the driver asked. Alessandra saw his eyes glance at her through the rearview.

"I don't want to talk about it," Alessandra dismissed.

"I see," the driver replied. "Well, go home. Get a night's sleep. Whatever seems to be troubling you now, it'll be much better in the morning. You'll see, Signorina."

Alessandra looked out. She realized they were driving over a bridge now. The short railing zipped by the window. Suddenly, she sat up.

"Here," she ordered. "Stop here."

"Here? But—."

"Here!" Alessandra insisted. The taxi slowed. The driver looked reluctant. Alessandra reached into her handbag, found her wallet, and took out a thick bundle of bills. She reached forward and offered it to the driver. "No change," she told him. "Just drive off—don't tell anyone I'm here."

The driver slowly took the bills, his brow creased with uncertainty. "Signora—."

"Thank you," Alessandra said quickly, opening the door. "Now please, just go." She slammed the door on the still troubled driver. Instead of continuing down the road, he watched the young girl through the rearview as she walked away from the taxi, her back slowly shrinking. He noticed how one of her hands rested gently along the rails.

* * *

Corriere Della Serra

 **Death in Milan—Young Woman's Body Found at the Bottom of a Bridge**

17 May 1999

The body of a girl, estimated to be in her teens, has been discovered underneath the Ponte dei Gemelli. Police were called to recover the body and determine the cause of death in the event of a possible homicide.

However, according to the most recent statement released by the police chief, coroners found no evidence of struggle on the young woman's body. The cause of death was determined to be blunt force trauma to the head, likely sustained as a result of a fall from the top of the bridge. This theory is reinforced by the bruising found on the body, which coroners say closely resemble the kind of contusion inflicted as a result of falling from a height.

Investigators found an abandoned vehicle at the top of the bridge, which was determined to belong to the deceased. A pair of shoes, likely the woman's as well, was also found by the railings above the spot where the body was found.

All signs point to this being the tragic suicide of an emotionally distraught girl. In respect for her family, the police have withheld her identity from the public. Our hearts go out to the poor, grieving family and the young woman whose life ended so devastatingly. May her soul rest in peace.


	20. Expressionism

His chuckle made her jump, and she didn't like to admit how much it had startled her. Ignoring the quiet hammering of her heart, Celestina offered him a small smile. "Darling," she purred. "What is it you find so funny? What I just told you was rather tragic, wasn't it?"

Stefano's returning smile, though gentle, was almost jeering. He sighed. "Oh, amore. I think I see now."

Though intrigued, Celestina grew slightly worried. "Sorry? See what?"

"How many times have I asked? And now, finally…" A gloved hand came up to Stefano's chin. He mimicked the gripping of something and lifted it upwards from his face. The corner of Celestina's mouth twitched, though not into a smile or frown. Before she could say anything, Stefano suddenly stood.

"I really have enjoyed this little talk, amore, but I have work I need to get back to." He stooped down to plant a kiss on Celestina's forehead. "Enjoy the rest of your tea. If you need me, you know where I'll be." His receding footsteps melded in with the patter of rain until Celestina could hardly tell them apart.

* * *

When Ledford was reassigned to his cases, he was greeted by nothing but empty leads. _Good to see not much has changed in my absence_ , he thought grimly. Any detective knew time was quintessential in any case—each passing day wore the trail away just a little more. That a month had passed with no satisfactory progress made told Ledford that these were destined to become cold cases. It was beyond frustrating, especially with the hollowing thought that the women killed would find no justice.

As Ledford scanned over the work that had been done, he was exasperated at the fact that no one had bothered to pursue Valentini or his wife as leads despite the obvious pointers. It was as though the KCPD was purposefully turning a blind eye to what it feared the most—a remorseless, cunning killer. Someone who took the lives of others while knowing fully well what they were doing. A stranger to all that society held dear—empathy, compassion, and the internal restraints that kept humanity from regressing into savages.

It was much easier to go after the hit-and-run killer, the clumsy murderer. Those were the ones that the officers following the books caught without fail. But there weren't any of those here, and it almost felt as though going by the books was what allowed this killer to always be one step ahead of the KCPD. The ironic boundary established in the name of justice that kept them from achieving justice.

And just beyond the boundary, Ledford could see him there—taunting. Placing down the card that read _Failure_.

With a sigh, Ledford leaned back in his office chair. He afforded his eyes a break from the documents splayed across his desk by squeezing them shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. The only silver lining here was that Chaparé was still only the latest victim. Apparently this killer had seen fit to lay low. Four months had passed since the discovery of Marie's body, and the KCPD had received no subsequent reports of missing women or decapitated bodies. There'd been a missing person report submitted a few weeks ago, but that had been deemed unrelated given that the person had been an elderly man.

A gentle knocking shook Ledford out of his thoughts. He looked to see who was standing in the doorway, and then looked back down to begin sorting the messy documents. "Something I can help you with, Seb?"

"Just thought I'd stop by; see how things were going at this end."

"Well have _I_ got some news for you!" Ledford exclaimed sarcastically. He dropped the stack of documents into an open folder, letting them fall a little too loudly. "I think you'll be excited to hear that absolutely jackshit has been done, and we're no closer to finding our killer."

"Jackson," Sebastian said, taking the second computer chair from the corner and pushing it to the desk. He sat down across from Ledford. "Listen—."

"Seb," Ledford interrupted, planting both hands firmly down on the desk. "I know you mean well, but please—the concern is a little condescending."

"I didn't come by to coddle you, if that's what you're assuming," Sebastian replied. "Just came by to stop and chat like we used to. It's been about a month since I've been passing by an empty office."

Ledford paused, and then lifted a hand to wearily rub his eyes. "Ah," he groaned. "Sorry, didn't mean to get all pissy like that."

"Don't apologize," Sebastian insisted. "Forget it all for a sec and just talk to me. How's the sis? Still in Europe?"

Grateful for the change in subject, Ledford lowered his hand. "Yeah," he answered. "Though she graduated with a bachelor's in music a few weeks ago. Bummed I missed the commencement, but she told me not to sweat it. Apparently she's really becoming something over in France—told me over the phone she's getting booked back-to-back to play on stages. Then again…" Ledford shrugged. "The French love that classical shit, don't they? Anything cultured. Just make sure they don't get a glimpse of my Spotify playlist."

"They don't even need to look," Sebastian joked. "They just need to get close to the precinct and they'll be able to hear it leaking out from here."

"Really?" Ledford replied, leaning on an armchair. "I keep the door closed."

"Jackson, these walls are like Swiss cheese. We can all hear your rap music."

"Hip hop. Nelly does hip hop."

"Whatever."

"How old are you again?"

"Don't start with me, Jackson," Sebastian growled. "So your sister—she sticking in France or is she thinking of coming home? Lily was asking about her again the other day, probably just misses her."

"Well, after her graduation she gave me a call. As soon as her last show's done, she's not booking anymore. Wants to head back to Krimson City—said something about wanting to reconnect with an old friend." With a shrug, Ledford added, "Not too sure what that meant. Oh!" He held up a finger, and then stooped to the side to reach into his dark blue messenger bag. "She also told me to make sure I had this ready for her when she got back."

He pulled from the bag an old, tattered sheet music booklet and tossed it onto the table. Sebastian took it, delicately turning the yellowed pages. "You know, before your sis went abroad, Myra was saying how it'd be nice to have her teach Lily to play."

"Ah, man, don't tell her that. She'd jump on the idea," Ledford teased lightly. Sebastian glanced back down at the booklet. His hands had stilled on the inside of the front cover. "There's a signature here," he noted. "Handwritten. Fuck me, that penmanship looks like something straight out of Word—one of those frilly, loopy fonts."

"Huh," Ledford said absently, affording the signature one quick, apathetic glance before looking back down at his documents. "She had a lot of musical idols. There's a ton here—you know us. If Austin's the live music capital of the world, we're the live _classical_ music capital."

"No we're not," Sebastian scoffed. Ledford shrugged. His attention honed in on a particular document in his hand, and he began skimming over the text. He was so focused that he was late to catch Sebastian's next words.

"—tessa… I've heard that somewhere before."

Ledford looked up. "Hmm?"

Sebastian had still been examining the booklet. With a quick, dismissive wave, he said, "Nothing," and closed it. "Not really a classical music guy."

"And not really a Nelly guy either, I've noticed."

"Great deduction, Detective," Sebastian drawled. "I should put in a word with Vankirk and have you promoted."

Ledford lifted his shoulders in a drawn-out shrug, "What can I say? I'm a natural."

"Sebastian." Both men looked towards the door. Standing just outside the threshold was Kidman, one hand perched on her hip. _Damn_ , Ledford thought. _Those jeans are doing her a lot of favors._ Quickly, he silently chided himself for that spur-of-the-moment thought. Now really wasn't the time to be checking out subordinates. And, to be honest, his track record with women wasn't exactly flattering. Ledford had vowed to himself some time back, while picking up the belongings that had been thrown all across the front yard of a newly-made ex, that he was going to take a break from the whole dating ordeal. _And she was the one who'd cheated on_ me.

Sebastian stood. "Ready to head out, Kidman?"

"Yessir."

"Where are you two off to?" Ledford asked.

"Just got assigned a case yesterday, and I've asked Kid here to be my subsidiary. If all goes well, she'll be made junior detective."

"Ah," Ledford mused, lifting his eyebrows. "Nice. Well, happy hunting."

"Likewise. See ya around."

"Bye, Jackson."

"Take care, Meat Shield. Don't forget to buckle your seatbelt," Jackson teased as the two detectives filed out of his office. Kidman leaned back into the doorway. Lifting two fingers, she pantomimed a gunshot. Ledford returned with an exaggerated gripping of his chest. He caught Kidman's smirk as she disappeared past the doorway.

With his spirits lifted, Ledford looked back down at the documents with fresh eyes. No deaths in the past four months. He dared to wonder if maybe things were starting to look up.

* * *

Krimson City Post

 **Decapitated Body of Unidentified Woman Found on Trailside**

December 14, 2008

Police received a frantic 911 call after a jogger was interrupted from her afternoon run to follow her dog. The jogger, who wishes to remain anonymous, told officers that her dog had suddenly become agitated and began pulling her away from the trail in an attempt to get closer to something. Thinking at first that it was a critter it wanted to chase, the jogger pulled the dog back but noticed that its behavior was growing unusual.

Upon closer inspection, the jogger spotted something large partially hidden in the undergrowth. She states she initially thought it was an animal, but then recognized an arm.

Though police have not yet released an identity, they have confirmed that the deceased was female. There have been several speculations on who she may be with the strongest theory pointing to Aileen Montgomery, an aspiring model who was reported missing two weeks ago.

* * *

Krimson City Post

 **Murder Victim Identified as Singer/Songwriter Danika Evans. Police Suspect Return of Serial Killer**

January 4, 2010

Fans of the Krimson City born-and-raised singer were heartbroken at the news that the decapitated body discovered in Mulberry Creek last week was confirmed to be that of Danika Evans.

Evans had been reported missing three weeks prior. There have been several connections drawn between this murder and the one that took place almost a year ago involving Aileen Montgomery.

In yesterday's press conference held by Lieutenant James Vankirk of the KCPD homicide division, several reporters brought up the Emily Lewis, Janine Sawyer, and Marie Chaparé cases from a few years prior. No killer was ever apprehended. Approached with the question of whether the same individual could be responsible for the recent murders, Vankirk did not deny the possibility. He concluded the press conferences with the promise that the KCPD is doing all they can to find Evans' killer.

* * *

Krimson City Post

 **Acclaimed Violinist Malia Reese Latest in Terrifying String of Murders**

October 15, 2010

In the latest tragedy, the headless body of Malia Reese was found in an alleyway behind the abandoned building that was formally Wesley's Bowling Alley up until last year. The people of Krimson City are up in terror at this latest bit of news. Sharing the space of widespread fear is anger towards the KCPD at why they continue to let this happen. Lead detective on the Reese and Evans cases, Jackson Ledford, has refused to give any comment. It should also be noted that Detective Ledford also headed the investigations on the unsolved murders of the women from several years ago. From undisclosed sources, we have learned that the only thing investigators managed to do in those previous cases was make an arrest that proved to be a false alarm.

In an interview with Krimson City's sweetheart, Celestina Amonte expressed her distress over Reese's death. Amonte was a close friend to the late Reese. "She was such a talented girl with so much potential. The moment she touched bow to strings she would take your breath away. The musical world has been dealt a great blow. She leaves and takes a part of my heart with her."

Amonte has also made comments on the KCPD's failure to protect the city, sparing no bite from her words. "What have they allowed this city to sink to? This is the place I planned to raise my children in, but now I have been forced to fear for my life. My husband has been forced to fear for my life. I cannot tell you how much sleep he has lost over this, how much stress and worry torments him at the thought that I could be next. He's even considered having us move away to Salerno for my sake."

* * *

Krimson City Post

 **Headless Body of Journalist Turns Up as the Krimson City Killer's Latest. Possible Suspect Brought in for Questioning**

November 30, 2011

The most recent murder of Irma Kotz may have allowed the KCPD to take a step into the right direction. An anomaly from previous murders, Kotz was a journalist for the large show business publication, _Stage Spectacle_. Kotz was infamous for her overtly critical and harsh pieces. She would often find stars of stage and show to attack, which led to the controversy earlier this year when she directed her focus on Krimson City's own La Contessa dell'Opera.

In that specific article, Kotz criticized La Contessa's then latest stage appearance, writing "a satisfying performance, if you are the kind to enjoy listening to the drawl of a broken record. Celestina Amonte is a true talent's nightmare—a performer praised mostly because of the way she looks." Her piece sparked the fire of controversy among several music critics. Fanning the flames were Kotz's additional attacks: "But Amonte's blade is getting dull. This year, the singer's 29th birthday is coming up. It's time to retire, Amonte. Don't worry, there's a long line of other talentless pretty faces ready to take your place."

Suspecting the release of this article and Kotz's subsequent murder to be no coincidence, KCPD have brought Celestina Amonte in for questioning. Unable to reach her, we have instead been able to interview Amonte's husband, Stefano Valentini. He told our reporters that even just the idea of Amonte being involved in Kotz's death was outlandish.

"What that journalist did to my love was unforgivable. Music is Celestina's world, and to have it torn to shreds like that devastated her," Valentini said. "But as heartbroken as that woman's words left her, my Celestina would've never— _never—_ wished ill upon her. My wife is a loving, compassionate woman. She wouldn't even hurt a mouse."

* * *

Krimson City Post

 **Celestina Amonte Released From Questioning with No Suspicions**

December 3, 2011

The Krimson City Post has been contacted by Celestina Amonte's legal council and made aware of needed corrections to our last article related to the Irma Kotz murder. The phrasing of "Possible Suspect" has been officially rescinded. Amonte has been released from police custody with no suspicions of any involvement in the Kotz murder.

The Krimson City Post would like to formally apologize to Amonte for placing her in a fundamentally damaging light.

* * *

Krimson City Post

 **Krimson City Killer Strikes Again—Another Body Found Underneath Highway Overpass**

February 10, 2013

News of yet another decapitated body has sent a renewed wave of terror over Krimson City. The body has not yet been identified, but is suspected to be that of Seanna Marvin-Timwell. Having moved to Krimson City five years ago, Marvin-Timwell was an actress most well known for her role in the hit drama _Letters From the Side of the Road_.

In another press conference held by Lieutenant Vankirk, the KCPD has yet again been able to neither confirm nor deny that the same individual, now widely known as the Krimson City Killer, is responsible for this death.

It is no coincidence that this city has witnessed a vast demographic decline of young women in the past two years. Many young couples and families with daughters have begun moving out of Krimson City, despite its steady economic growth.

"I've got two to look after," a father told us. "One 17 and one 14. My wife too. If the police here don't care about their safety, we're moving to a city where they do."

* * *

This year's gala was truly spectacular. The mayor really outdid himself this year. To be completely honest, Clarissa Denevor mused to herself, the man who currently sat in office was leagues better than the one he'd replaced. Though she suspected that the terror inflicted by the Krimson City Killer had been the final nail in the former mayor's coffin, burying away any chance of a reelection. _Politics_ , she sighed to herself. _It's why dear husband looks like he's well past his 'best by' date._

Clarissa chatted casually with a fellow fashion designer, flinging out empty compliments at the news of her new deal with a few high-end retailers in Great Britain. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a particular couple mingling at the far end of the lakeside deck.

For the past few years, her dear Cellie had finally started attending the gala with the husband as her plus one. Maybe the change was because of the new mayor. The old one had never been shy to openly display his keenness towards Celestina. Add in the husband—what was his name again, Stefan? —and Clarissa couldn't imagine the drama that would've ensued. She didn't know how possessive this Stefan was of Celestina, but so far tonight his arm seemed to favor her waist. Well, Cellie _was_ a prize—she reminded Clarissa of herself at that age.

Oh, but on the other hand, that husband… He was a tall drink of water himself. Clarissa sighed, thinking of her own. The senator was well, _well_ past his prime. And ever since they'd tied the knot, his concern over his appearance had dropped exponentially. Not to mention his libido.

Boo. European men were so handsome. More so ever since Clarissa had gotten married. She shot the man standing next to Celestina another side glance. To tell the truth, she wouldn't mind a drink out of that.

The night progressed smoothly. As the sun set, torches were lit to keep the deck well illuminated. Food and drink continued to be served endlessly. As Clarissa was wrapping up a conversation, she heard a familiar voice enthusiastically say, "Clarissa dear, _how_ do you do it? I swear you look younger every time I see you!"

Clarissa turned, planting a wide smile on her face. "Cellie, you tease! Stop it!" She leaned forward to hug Celestina, pressing a cheek tightly against hers. As they pulled away, she turned to the man standing next to her. "So good to see you too, Stefan!"

He responded with a chuckle, though Clarissa wasn't sure what was so funny. "A pleasure as well, my dear," he said.

"Oh, you two are _so_ cute together!" Clarissa said with a wave of her hand. "Like something out of a fairytale—I know I say that every time, Cellie, but I'm not kidding!"

Celestina laughed airily, delicately covering her mouth as she did. "But Mark—how is he?"

"Oh," Clarissa said, her lively voice suddenly losing its energy. "He's fine, currently in DC for… something. Some political issue or another—you know how it is." A smile returned as she quickly changed the subject. "But Cellie, you haven't told me! How did you like the dress I sent you?"

"Clarissa dear, I can't thank you enough. That shade of red—beyond perfect."

"And I had that collar lowered a quarter of an inch from its original design just for you." She turned to Stefan with a laugh and said, "No need to thank me."

Clarissa saw none of his disdain, of course, because he masked it perfectly. "My dear, I feel I must." Oooh, how that accented purr sent a shiver down her spine.

The clanging of a spoon being knocked against a wine glass stole the crowd's attention. Standing at the rails of the deck's second floor, the mayor stood with a glass raised. "I'd like to personally thank you all for coming tonight and making this year's gala an absolute pleasure," he announced. "But I'm afraid I must lower the mood to address the elephant in the room. This time last year, the talented and much-loved Seanna Marvin-Timwell was here with us, attending this very same gala. I feel we must dedicate some time tonight for a moment of silence—for the wonderful woman we lost." Clarissa lowered her eyes, as did many of the guests. She saw Celestina lean against Stefan and bury her face into his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her.

When the moment of silence was over, the mayor thanked everyone and the gala resumed. However, the topic of Seanna Marvin-Timwell still hadn't left Clarissa's mind. "It was so awful when we heard the news," Clarissa told the couple. "Before Mark left, he even brought up the idea of hiring personal security for me. I told him there was no need, but… oh, it's just so _awful_ when I think about it!"

"Clarissa." It was Stefan who replied first. "I don't think you need to worry much. Still…" He lowered his eyes to his wife, who gazed back up at him. "It wouldn't hurt to stay on the safe side."

"And you need to take care of my Cellie!" Clarissa said. "I wouldn't know what I'd do if something happened to her!"

Smiles appeared on both their faces. "She's quite safe with me." They looked a bit odd to Clarissa. Suddenly, Celestina turned her head. Something appeared to have caught her eye.

"Amore, there she is!" she said, giving her husband's arm a gentle shake. "The one I told you about. I really _do_ need to introduce you tonight."

"She seems like an interesting one," Stefan replied, gazing in the same direction as Celestina. Clarissa looked over and saw a young woman standing by the water. "Who is that, Cellie?"

"I'm surprised you haven't heard of her!" Celestina replied, turning back to Clarissa. "She's a wonderful little singer—opera, just like me. I heard her performance last week and knew I _had_ to meet her. She told me she wanted to try her hand at modeling and, well…" She leaned against Stefan, draping a hand over his chest. "I happen to know a very talented photographer who can help her."

"Cellie, that's so nice of you! I wish her all the best!" She spotted a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne flutes and quickly flagged him down. Taking one for herself, she gestured towards the tray and said, "I know you're never one to turn down a glass of bubbly, Cellie. That hand of yours does look dreadfully empty."

Celestina smiled sweetly as Stefan reached over to take a flute, giving the waiter an appreciative dip of his head. Her hands, however, did not move towards the tray. "Oh Clarissa, you know me so well. But…" She turned to the waiter, putting a hand up. "None for me, thank you."

"Have you had a single glass tonight, Cellie?"

"No," Celestina sighed. "And I'm going to have to get used to that."

The champagne flute stilled on Clarissa's lips. Her eyebrows rose. She saw Stefan give his wife a glance, and didn't miss how his eye flickered down to her midriff. It seemed, Clarissa mused, this was news to him as well. She wondered when Celestina had planned on telling him.


	21. Artist's Block

_In a way_ , he reasoned to himself, _this is yet another creation._ Even with that logic, he was unable to put himself at ease. What was he now with the arrival of this atypical piece? He was supposed to be Stefano Valentini—the artist of destruction! Il Maestro di Morte! And _this?_ This formation of _life?_ It was because of him. His creation.

 _Consider this a breaching of boundaries_ , he thought. _A rite of passage all great artists took. Did Michelangelo not step out of his comfort zone to paint the heavenly sky of the Sistine, despite his dislike of the very brushes he held? Despite his preferred inclination towards marble, of which he is known the world over as the master of? And how great did his frescoes turn out! What a splendor of mankind that arose from one artist breaching the boundary!_

Stefano sighed. He dipped his head down to wearily rub his eye. He was, however, not ignorant to the gravity of this situation. This was not simply just a piece. It was not something done, and then set aside.

A _child_. And not just any—his own. One that would share his name, call him 'Papa.' Call Celestina 'Mamma.' Look up to the both of them. Learn from the both of them.

Stefano paused, lifting his head. His gaze returned to the window in front of him. The first light of dawn was just starting to touch the world outside. _Another admirer. No, not just that—a successor._ He nestled an arm across his torso and perched the other atop it. With a finger tapping his lower lip, he deeply pondered this new thought.

Soft steps came from behind him. "Darling, you're up early."

"Mmm," Stefano absently hummed back, his stare still fixated on the glass. "Once the fires of inspiration are lit, they seldom let me rest easy."

The steps came closer until he could almost see her reflection in the mirror—only a ghost of a form. "I thought you might've liked her," Celestina said. "I saw that look in your eye last night when you were talking to her. And oh, how she sings so beautifully—makes me want to cut her tongue out mysel—."

"How far along are you?" Stefano suddenly demanded, turning around to face her. He saw her quickly place her hands on her hips as their eyes met. He couldn't help but glance down at her stomach through the translucent nightgown. It was there—unseen but present, like an idea.

"I found out last week," Celestina answered. "Won't know exactly how long until I see the doctor."

"Can't be more than a month," Stefano muttered quietly, turning back to the window. He felt Celestina hug him from behind and rest her chin on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she murmured into his ear. "I was just… nervous. I wanted to wait for the right time." She craned her head forward to kiss his cheek. "Will you forgive me, Papa?"

"How much will this change?" Stefano wondered, his voice still soft.

"Some things will change. Others don't have to. You can still be my dear artist." Celestina came around to Stefano's side. Finally, he looked down at her. "And think how wonderful the further immunity will grant you. How could the KCPD ever suspect a loving husband and _father_ of being the dreadful Krimson City Killer?"

A smile twitched on his lips. "Amore, I do love the way you think," he said, gently tucking a finger under Celestina's chin. "Such a cruel, cruel seductress. Sometimes I think I ought to be scared of you."

"Of me?" Celestina took his hand out from under her chin. She traced a seam in his glove with her fingernail. "Don't be ridiculous. They call me Krimson City's sweetheart for a reason."

* * *

"Is that one her plane?"

"No."

"Is that one?"

"No."

"Is that one?"

"… Yes," Ledford lied with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

"Is she still inside?"

"No, she's gotten off by now. Probably getting her bags off the carousel." _Or waiting for us_ , Ledford added in his head. They were a little late, but hopefully she wasn't being kept waiting.

"Oh," Lily replied from the backseat. She finally brought her face away from the window as the car entered the parking garage and obscured the idle planes from view.

"Are you excited to see her again, Lily?"

"Yeah!"

"Are you nervous?"

"Nope!"

"Not even a little?"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Alright," Ledford said, pulling into an empty space. "Just don't get all shy and run off to hide somewhere when she shows up, okay?" _And Myra would_ kill _me if I lost sight of Lily at a busy airport_. Ledford stepped out of the car. By the time he came around to Lily's side, the little girl had already opened the door and hopped out of her seat. "Take my hand, Lily. Remember—stay by my side at all times, okay?"

"Why are there always so many people here?" Lily asked as they walked towards the garage elevator. Her wide eyes stared down the aisles and aisles of cars.

"This is an airport," Ledford answered. "There's always people coming and going. Come on Lily, let's go. I'll let you press the elevator button."

At the offer, the child tore her attention away from the cars and hurried so quickly she was almost pulling Ledford along. When they reached the elevators, he kept his promise and let Lily tap the up button. After a few moments, one elevator dinged and slid open. "Do you remember which fl— _No!_ Lily, no!" Ledford cried, reaching out and grabbing the little girl's wrist before she could embark on her button-mashing fest. "Only one. This one—with the little star on it, see?"

"Does it have a star because that's the one we're going to?" Lily asked after pushing the button.

"No, it means ground floor. In any elevator, when you see the star, that means it's the ground floor." _Well, I'm not sure about elevators in other countries. I'll have to ask Bunny about that when we see her_.

"Why doesn't it just say ground floor?" Lily asked as the doors slid close.

"It'd be really hard to fit the words 'ground floor' in that little button, wouldn't it?"

"Not really," Lily said. "You could do it like this." She bent down in front of the button panel and wrote the tiny letters in the air above the particular button. Ledford suppressed a lighthearted scoff as he watched her. The ding sounded again, and the doors opened to reveal a brightly lit corridor. The footsteps and voices of a heavy crowd filled the air.

"Lily!" Ledford called when the girl was on the verge of running out. At his voice, she turned and took the hand he held out for her. They exited into the large, bustling check-in area. There, they weaved through the moving mass of people seemingly going in every direction.

"Where's Bunny? Do you see her?" Lily asked as they made their way through the crowd.

"She's not here. She'll be at baggage claim," Ledford answered, his eyes briefly skimming over the small group of people waiting to be picked up. Luckily, he didn't see his sister among them.

"What's that?"

"The spinning thing where you get your suitcases."

"Oh." As they neared the baggage claim area, the crowd thinned. "Can I ride on it?"

"On the carousel? No, not this one."

" _Please?_ I won't tell Mom… or Dad!"

"No, Lily, no one's allowed on the carousel." Ledford glanced back to see the soured look on the little girl's face. No doubt she'd tried that one on Myra and Seb before, and was hoping for a more favorable answer from Uncle Jackie. _Sorry Lily. As much as I'd love to let ya, I gotta be a man of the law._

When they arrived at baggage claim, Ledford paused between the two carousels. His eyes skimmed over the faces of the waiting people as they stared boredly at the slow-moving luggage, waiting for the sight of familiar-looking designs or tags. Lily, antsy from staying still, stood up on her tiptoes. "Do you see her? I don't see her."

"No," Ledford mumbled as he scanned the crowd again. "I don't—."

"Beep, beep! Move it or lose it, folks!" a voice declared playfully. Ledford turned and saw a luggage-filled cart moving towards them. At the sight of the girl pushing the cart, the detective broke into a wide smile.

"Bunny!" Lily squealed, breaking away from Ledford to rush to the girl. The young woman took her hands from the cart and crouched down with her arms wide open. When Lily jumped into them, the girl hugged her tightly. "Oh, Lily, look at you! You're so big now!"

"Guess how old I am!"

"You are… let's see, twenty three!"

"No, that's _old!"_

 _Ah jeez,_ Ledford thought. _Way to make a guy feel ancient_.

"Well tell me, then. How old are you?"

"I'm SIX!"

"Wow! Someone's a big girl now!" Bunny rose. Her eyes met Ledford's, and the brilliance in her smile was renewed. "Jackie!" she greeted cheerily. "I missed your big, dumb face!" She stepped forward and rushed into her brother's hug.

"And I missed your big, poopy head," Ledford mumbled into her hair. They parted, and Bunny returned to her cart. "Ugh, okay, let's get out of here," she said.

"Can I ride?" Lily asked.

"Yeah, sure!" Bunny reached forward and patted the large, black suitcase on top. "This one's okay—it's just clothes."

Ledford eyed the size of the suitcase as he hoisted Lily up on top of it. "All that is just clothes?"

"Oh, shut up," Bunny teased. She wheeled the cart around, and the three of them headed away from baggage claim. "Okay, okay, but like can I tell you something right now? Like, _right_ now?" She seemed just about ready to burst from excitement from the news waiting on the tip of her tongue.

"Yeah, sure," Ledford offered. Knowing Bunny, he couldn't help but feel as though he'd just pulled the pin from a grenade. A very happy, chatty grenade—also known as his sister.

"Guess—oh my god I'm like freaking out trying to tell you—guess where I'm playing my first Krimson City show?"

"You're already booked—?"

"The Violet Crown Theatre!" Bunny interrupted excitedly as they entered the elevators. "THE Violet Crown! Jackie! That's where _Beyoncé_ played!"

Ledford let a heavy exhale out through his nose. "Somehow I don't think you two are playing for the same crowd," he joked. "But that's great! I'm really proud of you." He reached out and pushed the button for the underground floor they were parked on. Glancing back, he added, "And I'm sure Mom and Dad would've been proud too."

He saw a flash of sentiment appear on Bunny's face, and then she looked down with a smile. "Quit being a cheese-butt," she said.

"So when's the show?"

"Two and a half weeks."

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. "Not a lot of time to unpack and unwind, then."

"Eh, I'm used to it. I got flown all across France. Sometimes I'd have a show the day after I landed, especially when I was starting out and couldn't get the best show times."

"Man, who's doing all this scheduling? Surely you're not, are you?"

"Jackie!" Bunny groaned with a roll of her eyes. "No performer books their own shows! I got Denis helping me. He's—oh, you'll meet him later. He got here a week ago to do some, I don't know, scouting I guess."

They reached the car. Lily hopped down from the cart. "Can I come to your show?" she asked.

"Of course you can, Lily!" Bunny replied. "Have Mom and Dad take you."

"Dad doesn't listen to piano music—he listens to _old people_ music."

 _Now that I can agree with_ , Ledford agreed wickedly. He opened the trunk of the car and began loading the luggage inside.

"They'll want to come—go ask and see." She suddenly whirled around to Ledford and loudly clapped her hands. "Come on, man! Work faster!"

"You wanna ride in the trunk with the suitcases?" Ledford threatened.

"I do!" Lily exclaimed.

"No, Lily."

* * *

Additional immunity. Stefano wasn't fooled. That wasn't how Celestina saw the baby in her belly. There was a special connection between a woman and her child—a connection Stefano knew he could never understand, but was intrigued by all the same.

He thought of the woman who had raised Giacomo. And, in a way, him. He may not have understood the connection, but he knew how it worked. How it felt.

It was the soft, tinkling notes that caught his attention. When he followed the sound, Stefano heard her voice gently humming along with it. He found her sitting on the edge of the bed. Atop the nightstand, the small porcelain ballerina spun slowly on her platform. He didn't miss how Celestina had one hand draped gently over her stomach.

"That music box," he said, cutting through the music. Celestina stopped humming and looked up. "That was the one your mother gave Alessandra, wasn't it?"

"So you remembered," was all Celestina replied as she leaned forward to scoot the box closer.

"Why is it here?"

"After that night, Alessandra had no more use for it," Celestina replied. She rested a hand against the carved countryside relief. "Our baby will fall asleep to this song… on the nights I'm too tired to sing it myself, of course," she said. Stefano watched the ballerina rotate. His eye switched to the pearl necklace on his wife's neck. His gaze rested to the ground as he remembered the budding realization he had come to upon hearing Celestina's past. Without a word, he turned and left.

For the next few days, Stefano busied his mind by developing the blueprints of his next work. That girl Celestina introduced him to at the gala—what was her name again? He couldn't quite remember. And, astoundingly, he found himself having trouble recalling what she even looked like.

Hmm… what should the final piece look like? Dainty, elegant—always. That was the trademark of his style. Death was breathtakingly graceful—the way it seized the entire form and transformed it to its will.

And yet… Stefano glanced down at the glaringly empty page in front of him. All that white was meant to hold the design of his next masterpiece, but there was nothing. Not one touch of graphite. It was still all trapped in his head, these ideas upon ideas upon ideas. Tumultuous incoherency. He couldn't make a single thing out from among that which crowded his thoughts.

It worried him. _This is more than just a mere block,_ he knew. He could feel it. His creativity had grown stagnate. Rotted like an undesirable piece of flesh. He couldn't even remember what that girl at the gala looked like.

The sound of the chair legs was loud and harsh as Stefano stood up. _What is happening to me?_ he wondered wildly. _Is this the end? Have I passed the peak of my greatness? No. NO! I still have more! So, so much more left to make! Please!_ With brisk steps, he paced to and fro in the studio.

There was nothing here—no peace, at the very least. And this constant back and forth was driving him mad. Stefano didn't know why, but he found himself leaving the studio to go downtown into the arts district. Before he knew it he was striding into the Gallery of Art. The receptionist looked up. She opened her mouth as he stormed past her desk, but shut it when she recognized him.

He flew past the works of others that barely intrigued him and found the section of the gallery where his own were displayed. Stefano's eyes skimmed over them—pieces so foreign he could hardly recognize them as his own. Portraits of beautiful women with immaculate hair, posed with meticulously arranged flowers, leaned on balcony railings, or pressed up against walls. One of his Celestina, standing in a blood red dress that seemed to morph into the red, velvety drapery that fell around her. And yes, on that end there were even those damned landscapes.

A farce—all of it. These pieces had been dredged out only so the critics could be kept at bay, so that the knives they constantly wielded would poke instead of stab. Stefano could only stomach these pieces because deep down, he knew these were necessary in order for his true style to flourish. Unseen, delicately festering into something special from the underbelly.

Stefano looked down, pinching his chin in his fingers. But where there once was growth, now there was nothing. He took a deep breath and willed himself to look back up at these… these _placeholders._

If the spark had gone, were these all he had left? An artist without his style was… well, Stefano wasn't even sure what. An empty paintbrush, its bristles too dry and brittle for paint. An old camera left forgotten under a coat of dust, never again to take another picture.

 _Snap out of it, Stefano_ , he told himself as he turned to leave the gallery. _Inspiration will come—it always has. It will strike you as a blazing flash of glory. Just be patient._

Stefano returned home. As he passed by the bathroom, he heard a familiar rumbling that told him a bath was being drawn. Stefano stopped by the dining table and sifted through the newspapers until he'd found the one saved from a few weeks ago. It'd been released a few days after the annual gala. Stefano flipped through the pages, scanning the pictures taken from that evening. Maybe, he figured, if he saw the face of that girl again, it would jumpstart his creativity.

But it seemed he was out of luck. None of the pictures held her image. Frustrated, Stefano threw the newspaper back onto the table. Perhaps a little time spent with his dear muse would get things kick started. The rumbling of the bath's tap had stopped, but the door was still closed. He stopped by it and gave it a few delicate knocks.

"Yes?" came the response from within.

Stefano opened the door and found her in the bathtub at the far end. Her wet shoulders glistened in the evening sun that filtered through the frosted glass. Celestina's eyes fluttered open as he crouched by the tub. "Darling," she said. "You sounded rather restless out there. Is something the matter?"

"Just needed some air to think," Stefano answered. He pulled off a glove and traced a line down her arm. "Don't you look picture perfect?"

"Another picture for your private album?" Celestina replied slyly. Suddenly, her brow furrowed. Closing her eyes, she adjusted herself in the tub with a soft groan.

"What is it, amore?"

"My back has been killing me all day," Celestina answered. "It's been like this for almost a week. A soak usually helps."

"Am I to expect to see you in here for the next seven months, then?"

"Perhaps." Celestina sat up, letting the suds slide down her skin and back to the surface of the water. "If I'm feeling generous, maybe I'll let you join me on occasion." She leaned back again, stretching her arms up. "Oh darling, I know it's a fickle topic at this point, but I do hope it's a girl—a sweet little girl. Don't you?" Her arms dropped down atop the rim of the bathtub. Stefano spotted a strange look in her eyes as she watched him, waiting for an answer.

Instead of responding the way she wanted, he said, "And if it's a boy?"

"I'll still love him all the same." Celestina settled back, lowering her eyes. Her hands came up from the water and cupped the suds. "But to have a darling little daughter… my own angel. I'd give her everything my mother never gave me."

Suddenly, Stefano saw Celestina's eyes widen as panic shot across them. With a startled gasp, she grew rigid. One hand flew down to grip the edge of the tub while the other seized Stefano's wrist with alarming strength. Pain from the pressure of her fingers shot through his arm. Startled, Stefano tried to pull his wrist back, but it was like fighting against stone.

Another heavy gasp escaped Celestina's lips. Her body heaved with every deep, intense breath. Suddenly, she let out a cry and jerked forward. As she did, her grip on Stefano was released.

Pulling in a shaky breath himself, Stefano held his wrist gingerly. Whatever had made Celestina act up seemed to pass. "Amore? What was that?"

"No… Nothing…" Celestina replied faintly. Her breathing slowly calmed down. "The doctor did say there would be cramps early on. I'm sure with time they'll subside."

 _Cramps? That almost looked like full on labor to me_ , Stefano thought.

Finally, Celestina looked at him. "Oh, darling, did I hurt you? My—these hormones are turning me into a mess!" She let out an airy laugh. "Let me finish my bath and I'll see if I can make it up to you." Her tone told him he ought to leave the conversation at that. Stefano gave her an emotionless smile as he rose and left the bathroom.

As soon as he was out of the steamy air, out of the sunlight muddled from frosted glass, the demons that had only been kept at bay slowly crept back into the folds of his mind. That little outburst of Celestina's had only served as a temporary distraction. Worst yet, his muse had done little to inspire him. What should have housed a growing spark was only cold emptiness.

Stefano fell into the routine of making himself a cup of coffee. Then, he settled down in the armchair by the window and silently watched evening fall slowly over Krimson City. Perhaps if he waited, his gift would find its way back to him.

After a few moments, Celestina came out in her bathrobe. She tucked herself in the snug space between Stefano and the armrest, letting one leg drape over his lap. "You look so forlorn. Is something troubling you? You know you can tell me."

Stefano, in lieu of a response, lifted the mug and took another sip of coffee. He wasn't sure if he could admit the truth to her—what would she think of her _dear_ artist then?

He didn't know where this wariness came from. She was the only person he had ever gotten this close to, aside from… Well, stop right there. She was the only person he had ever gotten this close to. But here was this burden that he, for once, wanted only himself to carry. Why? He wanted to blame pride, but knew a lie when he saw one.

"I've just been thinking," he simply responded.

Celestina left it that. Whether she was satisfied with that answer, didn't care, or deliberately avoided the truth, Stefano wasn't sure. All she did was lean her head on his chest. He found the gentle pressure relaxing.

To his surprise, he felt as though the demons had left him. Or maybe they were still there, but their voiceless torments had stopped. _The spark is still gone_ , he thought, _but why do I feel content all the same?_ He snaked an arm around Celestina and pulled her closer. _Perhaps this is why the artist left. He felt this change coming._

But if that part of him was gone, what was left? That sole thought kept alive his resistance. "I am an artist," he said aloud to Celestina. "That's all I am. All I ever will be. Isn't that right?"

She said nothing, and the silence was damning. Still he was obstinate, and he waited for his answer.

* * *

A few days later, the answer came.

It was a quiet evening when Stefano heard it. Like a blade sliding effortlessly through flesh, the scream cut through the air. Stefano had only heard it once before in the alleyway on the night that had changed him forever. Shrill and piercing—a true symphony of despair that needled a chill down his spine.

Like any good performance, it drew an audience. The bathroom door flew open and he hurried to rush in, but instead could only take a single step through the threshold before freezing. What he saw would stay with him for years and years and years, up until the day he would join his works of art.

She was on the floor. The bathrobe draped gently over her thighs. One corner fell into the crease of her bent leg. For a wild moment, Stefano didn't see the bathrobe and thought that she was wearing a dress—a brilliant red one that fanned out around her like a flower in bloom.

But then he realized there was no dress. The red was something else. It pooled around her bare legs.

He saw Celestina reach out and press her hands deep into the blood. Then she scraped it towards herself as though trying to pull it back in. As if trying to cradle something. Her fingers left trails in the viscous blood, letting the white of the tile show through. Once again, the creases and highlights of a red dress flashed in Stefano's mind.

When she lifted her hands from the tile, he noticed how they shook. Celestina held them up, palms facing towards herself, as thick streams dripped down her forearms. Her voice came out hollow and haunting, shaking just as much as her hands. "My baby…" And then a shriek so piercing, Stefano felt it hit him like lighting—a blazing flash.

 _"MY BABY!"_

He never got to see it. He only saw the coffin it was contained in—a small, wooden box with carved reliefs of the Italian countryside—gripped tightly in Celestina's hands as though she were afraid of letting it go, even for just one second. She left the house without a word. Stefano wondered at first where the box had come from. Then he found the porcelain ballerina on the table, surrounded by discarded gears and snapped axles.

It was dark when Celestina returned. The box was no longer with her. When she walked through the door, Stefano was already there waiting for her. The moment her eyes fell on him, she began to cry bitterly. And he hugged her, feeling nothing but relief that his muse still had the ability to inspire him so.


	22. Removal of the Mask

She spent all day in bed, even after the doctor had left. And before he had, he'd pulled Stefano aside with an air of urgency. "I'm very sorry for your loss—truly, I am," the doctor told him. "I cannot begin to imagine what you are feeling. Please understand that I do not wish to undermine your own grief, but I need to warn you that your wife feels this loss _enormously_. She was nearly two and a half months along now—that's two and a half months she had to bond with it even as an unborn child. Does she have any friends or family close by?"

"No," Stefano replied quickly. "Just me."

"I see," the doctor said. "Take care of her. Take care of yourself."

"Doctor," Stefano suddenly spoke up as the man was pulling the front door open. "How long will it take for things to…?" He hesitated, picking his words carefully. "To go back to normal?"

"That depends," the doctor replied. "However long the both of you need."

This time it was Stefano's turn to softly say, "I see."

"I left a card on the nightstand for counseling, should either of you need it. That resource is always available."

"We'll consider it. Thank you." Stefano shut the door behind the doctor. He turned and walked back to the bed where a still, silent figure lay on her side. Both her hands were tucked underneath the pillow, and she stared vacantly with unseeing eyes.

The mattress creaked lightly as Stefano took a seat at the edge of the bed. Seconds ticked by. The silence was stifling, and yet Stefano could find no way to break it. And then he heard it—the first thing Celestina had said in days.

"I wanted a little girl."

Her words were followed by the soft gasps and hiccups of gentle sobbing. Through the mattress, he felt her shake. Stefano usually enjoyed the sight of suffering—the rawness of despair would thrill him. The breaking of something sacred would amaze him.

But here the thing that had been broken was that—the connection between a woman and her child. This, Stefano couldn't stomach. It brought about a pain that reached _him_ , refusing to let him just be a spectator. Once, the breaking of this connection had come a little too close, and from then on it wouldn't leave him alone. Though desperate to escape the sight, Stefano knew that turning this way or that wouldn't prevent him from seeing it.

 _He stood right outside the apartment. The sound of sobbing from within had him hesitating at the door. A lump was rising in his throat. In a bid to stave away the tears before they would come, Stefano quickly lifted his hand and knocked. In his other, a small album was gripped tightly._

 _The few seconds that followed his knocks were unbearable. Then, the door opened and a woman that Stefano recognized as the caretaker stood in the doorway._

 _"I want to see her," he told the caretaker. The woman hesitated, but then brought him in. When Stefano saw her, he stopped._

 _Her face was all too familiar—like the sight of an old home. Comfortable. Safe. But now there was nothing but heartbreak and tears. Suffering brought out the lines of age forth into the light, and her bloodshot eyes were cloudy. She looked old._

 _She looked alone._

 _Stefano swallowed, and it was painful. He saw her stand up when she heard him enter, and it was painful. He felt her come up and hug him as she always did, and it hurt him. At that moment, he realized he didn't want to love anymore, because love_ hurt _._

 _But here, he had no choice. It was already injected into his bloodstream. There was no way to claw it back out._

 _"I brought this for you," he said. He offered the album to her, but suddenly it dawned on him that she wouldn't be able to see how each page held a photograph of her son—every picture Stefano had taken that held his image. It was all that was left of him, and she wouldn't be able to see it._

 _But she took it. She felt the cover, opened it, and felt the plastic sleeves inside. She pressed her fingers down and felt the edges of the photographs through the thin plastic. "Oh, caro, thank you. It's absolutely… Stefano?"_

 _He was crying. He'd told himself he wouldn't but—dammit! "I'm sorry," he whimpered through his tears._

 _"Oh, caro, no. Why are you apologizing?"_

 _"Because," he said, "it's the only thing I can do."_

Stefano blinked. The bed underneath him quivered. He felt sick from the uninvited pain, wishing there was some way to reach inside and tear it out. Hold it out in front of him and cut deep enough to bleed it out.

 _If it had been a boy_ , Stefano thought, _I would have named him after you._

He unclasped the button that secured the glove to his wrist and pulled it from his hand. Reaching over, Stefano rested the hand on Celestina's calf and left it there while she cried. It was the only thing he could do.

For the next few days, Stefano found himself unable to look at her. Every time he did, he saw the image of an old woman with cataracts superimposed over that of his wife. And then there it would be—that pain.

Celestina stayed mostly bedridden. She had no appetite and only sipped enough water to keep herself alive. Once, Stefano found her sitting up with the porcelain ballerina cradled in her hands. She was humming the melody of that lullaby. Her voice was out of tune.

Stefano was a firm believer that genuine, brilliant madness could not first be born without a powerful catalyst. For him, it had been the death of the one truly good thing in his life. For Celestina, it began with the phone call.

When Stefano picked up, he heard a man's voice ask for Celestina. Upon asking for a name, Stefano was told he was speaking to a Clyde. Who—oh, yes. That portly stump of a man who did all of Celestina's grunt work for her. Stefano told him that his wife was currently unavailable and Clyde, having heard a vague summary of what happened, asked how she was doing.

 _Synthetic empathy. Disgusting,_ Stefano thought disdainfully. Though in a pleasant voice, he thanked Clyde for his concern and said that Celestina was fairing well.

"That's good," Clyde said. "And you?"

"I'm fine." By accident, Stefano let a piece of his impatience breach through his tone. In his defense, he was fully aware that Clyde's concern was only a formality—there was a reason for this phone call and he could feel it coming.

"Right, Stefano, I… I have some news I'd like you to deliver to Celestina. You'd really be doing me a favor."

 _Typical. Trying to make me feel like_ I'm _the gracious one—give me a false sense of power so I'll agree._ "What do you need?"

"The thing is… my contractual term with Celestina is up by the end of the month, and I think it'd be best—given her current condition…"

 _Don't use that as your excuse. You're doing this for yourself._

"… If I didn't renew it." Quickly, Clyde added, "Give her a break, you know? Some proper time to recover."

A muscle in Stefano's jaw twitched. What a misfortune it was that he couldn't reach through the phone and strangle this idiot for trying to pull wool over _his_ eyes. "This isn't a break," he said pointedly. "You're dropping her."

"Well—!" Clyde retorted quickly, sounding flustered. "Stefano, I think we'd both agree this is what's best for her, isn't it? This thing—it's going to take some time to move on, right?"

"You've already signed on with someone else, haven't you?" Stefano didn't hear any more useless, boilerplate statements sputter out from Clyde's end. "Let me guess—someone at least a decade younger than Celestina, am I right?" He let his disgusted chuckle sound out over the line. "My friend, you're quite a piece of work. Now let me tell you—if there's anything I hate more than a philistine, it's a coward. I'm not going to let you turn me into the bearer of your bad news. If you want to drop my Celestina, you tell her yourself."

"N-no, see here—." The fool's bumbling was cut off as Stefano took the phone away from his ear and walked towards the bed. He found Celestina curled there, her neglected curls slowly dissolving into limp locks. Her ringed eyes flickered over to Stefano as he approached. Wordlessly, he held the phone out to her. "Clyde," he said, "has something to tell you."

He almost saw the traces of fear as Celestina sat up and reached for the phone. As soon as it was in her hand, Stefano turned away and walked back towards the studio space. He had almost reached it when he heard Celestina scream out, _"WHAT? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?"_

Stefano tried imagining the pitiful burbling that would be coming from the other end, but his mind couldn't quite dip to that low a level.

"Stronzo!" he heard Celestina shriek into the phone. "Cornuto! Vaffanculo, you piece of shit!"

 _Oh dear_ , Stefano mused, _best not to let Emilia know what filthy words came forth from her daughter's mouth._

"No wonder Macy kicked you aside, you worthless _fuck!"_ Celestina hung up, and a loud crash told Stefano that the phone had likely met its end against a wall.

Take care of her, the doctor had told him. Stefano intended to do just that—after all, she was his darling muse. A complement to the artist. An admirer. Everything he needed bundled into one beautiful being.

But his eye was a trained one, and he could tell when the most beautiful pieces had yet to reach their fullest potential. An opportunity had suddenly presented itself to Stefano, blooming like a rare flower with colors unfathomable to the lacking mind. He saw a chance hidden within those hues, and like an eager gambler he took it.

After the call from Clyde had come, Celestina began to include wine into her sparse diet. Stefano would see her with yet another bottle in her hands. Her gaze was fierce and fiery as she silently dared him to stop her. Stefano remain silent and let her pass.

One evening, Stefano was nonchalantly flipping through the pages of the Corriere Della Serra when he heard the heavy clicking of heels storming towards him. He let his gaze flicker up for the briefest of moments just to catch the sight of a form marching up to him out of the corner of his eye before focusing back on the printed text.

"Do you even _care?"_ Celestina demanded. Stefano could tell just from her voice that she had consulted with quite a few glasses tonight. "About me? At all?"

"Of course I do, amore." He flipped another page.

"Then prove it! Show me!"

Finally, Stefano closed the two halves of the newspaper and looked up. Mercy, she looked a mess. But he reminded himself that he was simply looking at a cocoon—unpleasant, yes, but soon to reveal something breathtaking. All he needed to do was be patient. "When was the last time you ate? Was it just wine tonight?"

"I said show me!" Celestina demanded, her voice shrilly. "Take me to bed! Kiss me!"

Stefano chuckled as a stray memory surfaced at those two words. "Let's not tread on thin ice, amore." He was just starting to open his newspaper back up when Celestina spoke in a broken voice.

"Do you even still love me anymore?"

"There is nothing I love more than my dearest muse," Stefano replied, skimming over an article to find where he had stopped.

 _"Stop it!"_ Her scream ripped through Stefano's concentration. Furrowing his brow, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Stop calling me that! I'm not your muse! I'm your wife!"

Stefano closed the newspaper back up. He let it drape over is lap as he looked up at Celestina, holding her gaze in its entirety. "If you are not my muse," he told her slowly, letting each word puncture her, "you are nothing."

What he saw in Celestina's eyes was utterly fractured, and he almost felt disappointed when she turned away and took it out of his sight. He took a moment to watch her slowly walk away. The mattress creaked as she climbed back into bed. Lifting the newspaper, Stefano opened it back to the article he was reading. It bore the headline: _FORMER PRESIDENT OF TALCUM PETROLEUM NICHOLAS AMONTE DEAD AT AGE 70._

The following night, Stefano found himself once again reclined in his armchair with the latest edition of the Corriere. Tonight had been quiet. Stefano had not heard a peep from Celestina, though he was sure she must have drank twice as much as last night. It would be, Stefano figured with a quiet sigh to himself, yet another night of waiting.

Or so he thought.

He heard the heavy, uneven steps and kept his eyes on the pages in front of him as he listened closely. But even when they neared him, they didn't slow. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Celestina pass him and finally looked up. She didn't even look at him as she stormed past him—towards the studio, he realized. He watched her for a moment until she disappeared. He heard the door to the darkroom open, and the sound of her steps receded. After a few moments of deliberation, he closed the newspaper and stood. With slow steps, Stefano trailed after Celestina. The door to the darkroom had been left open. As was the door that led below.

Stefano was halfway down the stairs when he heard her. "Shut up!" she snapped. "Shut up, all of you! What do you know? What do _ANY_ of you know?"

The sounds of his steps were masked underneath her frenzied shouts. At the other end of the chamber, Stefano saw her standing before the glass displays. She had gone quiet. He noticed how her head whipped from one dismembered head to the other.

"She _deserved_ it!" Celestina said, her wild voice taking on a guttural growl. She jerked her head, staring at a different display now. "She took everything from me!"

"Amore." His voice cut through the air and whatever delirium had taken over Celestina. He saw her turn to look at him. "What are you doing?"

* * *

She squinted with cruel, hateful eyes down at the dark, swirling liquid in the glass. She had been dropped, abandoned, by that _swine_ of all people. Fine! He was nothing without her! It would be a lesson he would be dragged against, and she hoped it grated his piggish hide off!

It was as if she was losing everything, everyone. Well, no, there was still him, wasn't there?

No. There wasn't even him. Since that day… when she had returned home without the box, and he held her while her world burned, he had done… absolutely nothing. True, he was the only reason she had eaten at all. Whenever she refused, he would grow stern with her. But on the nights she cried herself to sleep, he would just lay there, miles and miles away on the other side of the bed. He wouldn't hold her, stroke her hair. Christ, he wouldn't even look at her.

Wine gave her the courage to confront him about it one night. She was sick, absolutely sick, of the isolation. She wanted him to finally cross that damned barrier and come back to her. Touch the pain away. Make love as if it was the last thing they'd ever do.

Was this his way of punishing her for losing the baby? If he wanted a child, she wished he would just put another one in her so he would care about her again.

When she had drunken enough courage, she had marched right up to him in the hopes of finally getting him to realize what he was doing to her. And then, in that very confrontation, she heard him utter those words.

"If you are not my muse, you are nothing."

They stabbed deep into her gut. And when she looked into his eye, she saw that he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to her.

She had given into defeat, resolved to stew in her misery while he—what did he even want? To gloat? To silently torment her? Of course. It was that artist in him—the one that loved all things ugly and called them beautiful.

Well he had won. He'd won because he was a demon with no heart, no grasp of emotion, and thus no grasp of suffering.

The next night, she downed glass after glass but avoided Stefano in pitiful compliance. Maybe, she figured as she stared down into the deep, bloody well of her wine glass, one of these days this accursed liquid would finally drown her.

It was supposed to be a quiet night. When it got dark, she wanted to sleep so she could return to worlds that didn't matter. But, as she lay down, she found herself unable to sink down despite the heavy anchor of alcohol. Something was keeping her tethered here. It was that demon—this was just another way he tormented her.

She lay still as a corpse and waited. Just waited. And then she heard it.

A voice called out to her—called her by her name. A woman's voice. Unsure, she lifted her head from the pillow. There it was again, that voice. And another one. There were two of them—no, three. They called her name.

She ground her teeth. How did they know? Rising, she felt herself drawn to their voices. She rushed towards them as if pulled, her gait unsteadied and frenzied. She entered the studio without realizing where she was and pushed the button behind the bust's ear as she passed it. Down the stairs she descended, still listening to the voices calling her name. They were getting louder.

The lights triggered as she drew near, and finally she saw them. With wide, stunned eyes, she saw that their dead faces now held engorged smiles that nearly tore their waxen skin.

"Here she comes," the head at the very left said. "Lady of the hour." Cackles arose from behind the other glass boxes.

"Poor, poor girl," another cooed in a tone that did nothing but mock.

"Shut up!" she hissed, her eyes wide with madness and terror. "I don't need your sympathy!"

"Poor, poor girl," the head directly to her right repeated. "Not even a woman. Can't be called a woman if she can't even keep a baby in that womb." More cackling. Louder.

Her hands balled into fists, her nails cutting into her skin. The pain was invisible to her. All she could see were the heads in front of her, their mouths open wide and their faces warped into grotesque visages of mockery. "Shut up! Shut up, all of you! What do you know? What do _ANY_ of you know?"

"What do we know?" the decorated head in front of her said. "We know everything. We know what you did that night. We know who really dropped from that bridge."

"So cruel! So evil!" another piped up.

"She _deserved_ it! She took everything from me!"

"Amore, what are you doing?"

That one voice cut through above all others. Celestina felt herself tense, and then relax as though broken free from a spell. She turned and saw him standing there. The light behind her illuminated his entire front, his face. She saw him watching her with _that_ eye. Her breaths escaped her mouth in haggard breaths.

She took a step towards him and threw her finger back, shakily pointing at the glass displays. "Get rid of them," she growled in a low voice. "I don't want them near me."

That one eye, that deep, piercing blue, regarded her.

"No."

He had turned and was walking away before he could even see the tears. Funny, she figured he would've enjoyed the sight of them. His shoes tapped coldly against the ground— _tap, tap, tap_ —as he left her there.

This was different. This time, her rage was fueled by desperation. If he wouldn't silence them, she'd have to take it upon her own hands to make sure that they never spoke a word again. Storming back upstairs, she made straight for the garage where she knew it would be waiting for her. It was in the toolbox with the heavy lid. She felt the weight of it tug on her arm as she carried it back in.

She saw him immediately sit up at the sight of her. He thought, at first, that he was in some sort of danger. Maybe she would've liked to bash his demon head in, but at that moment only one burning desire controlled her. She flew past him and headed for the stairs. There they were at the end of the room, waiting for her under those lights. Under all that glass. They were silent this time, but that wasn't going to save them.

As she drew near, the hammer in her hand rose. She lifted it above her head as she stopped in front of the nearest display.

Finally, _finally_ , she would know peace. Finally, they would stop—.

The hammer wouldn't come down. Something had caught it. Wildly, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him—that demon. With one arm raised, he was holding the hammer back to keep her from bringing it down. He leaned just an inch closer and whispered in a daunting voice, each word dripping with agitation.

"Don't touch the works."

Suddenly, with a forceful wrench, he yanked the hammer from her grip. She watched him and waited. But what she expected him to do wouldn't happen, and it broke her heart.

He turned his back on her once again and walked towards the stairs, holding the hammer and her last trace of hope. No—no! This couldn't be it! Desperately, she stumbled after him.

"Just kill me then!" At her cry, he stopped. She saw him turn his head, but his back remained turned. "Cut off my head and put it in one of those boxes if it's the _only way you'll care about me!"_

He turned, hammer in hand. Each slow step brought him closer. As she watched him, her strength left her and her legs buckled. She collapsed on the ground. She dipped her head down and saw his shoes stop in front of her. There was a brief lull. Suddenly, the head of the hammer hit the ground between her hands. She heard the rustle of his clothes as he crouched down. One of his hands rested on the tip of the handle. The other came to her face. She felt the told touch of leather just below her chin. Her face was pulled up.

He examined her. There was something appraising about his gaze. He brought his thumb up and traced her lower lip with it. She felt nothing but the coldness.

Finally, he said, "You're tired. Go lie down." He took his hand from her face. He stood, and she couldn't bear the thought that he was about to walk away. That was all _anyone_ ever did to her. Because she had always been the entirely different animal.

She had been afraid to tell him this truth, because she knew it would make him walk away too. But it was already too late. Her weight had already tipped her over the edge and there was nothing left to do but make peace while she fell.

"No one has ever loved me!" she cried. She wrapped her arms around herself. "Everyone has only ever loved _Celestina_ through me!"

He knelt down again. She felt his hand come up underneath her face. This time, he gripped her jaw as he brought her face to look up at his. She saw his eye, but this time there wasn't a demon in it. There was… him.

"There it is," he said. "Off comes the mask." He left the hammer on the ground as he brought his other hand up to run his fingertips across her cheek. "Cracked. Shattered. I'll confess something to you—I love broken things. It lets me see the insides." His grip on her jaw suddenly tightened. He did something she didn't expect.

He kissed her—deeply and passionately, like a starved lover. When he finally broke away, she gasped for air. He still hadn't let go of her jaw. She felt his cheek slide against hers as he brought his lips to her ear.

"So good to finally be able to put face to name," he whispered, "Alessandra."

* * *

It reemerged like an old friend, a dusty memory. At the sight of it, Ledford wanted to slap his forehead in exasperation. He had been rifling through his desk when he found it—that old article in its plastic sleeve. Technically, he could have gotten into serious trouble for holding official case evidence among his personal possessions, but well… to be fair, he had been meaning to return it to the evidence storage facility.

But… right, this was the bloody Milanese newspaper article he had taken when looking back into the Curtis case. Come to think of it, hadn't there been something odd about it?

The back. That handwritten message. It hadn't made sense at all when Ledford first read it. He wasn't sure how this time would be any different, but he flipped the page over anyway. There it was—penned words written by a man before he was murdered. It was almost as though the message was meant to be directed to someone—not the detective who read it now. Someone else.

There, on the back of the article. Just on the outskirts of the blood.

 _Chapters. First Letters._


	23. Sisters

He took his eyes from the rearview to glance at the money still clutched in his hand—payment she had given him to be forgotten. Quickly, he looked back into the mirror. The bills were thrown from his grip and fluttered onto the passenger seat. Unbuckling the seatbelt, the taxi driver quickly exited the taxi and hurried around it.

"Signora!" he called. The girl turned. She had the look of someone who had found hope. But it was a misplaced one, and the driver silently begged to God he would be able to make her see that. "Signora, please! Just get back into the taxi! You can have your money back—I'll drive you home!"

"I thought…" It was too dark to see, but he could tell she was crying. "… I told you to _go."_

"Whatever you're thinking, just—please! I'll take you home, just don't… just don't." He dared to take a step towards her, and it pushed her back by one.

"You don't know!" she cried. "You don't know what I've been through! What she's put me through! Nobody cares! Nobody loves me!" Her hands balled into fists, and something seemed to possess her as her voice suddenly elevated into a shriek. "This'll show them! This'll make them all _pay!"_

"You're right," the driver replied. "You're right—I don't know. But please!" He clasped his hands out in front of him like a beggar. "This isn't the way. You won't win by doing this." His hands parted, and one reached tentatively towards her. "You win by going on—seeing another morning. Signora, it may seem like no one cares, but I promise you that someone does. Maybe you can't see them. Maybe you haven't met them yet. But there is always someone who cares."

The girl hesitated. The driver took another step, and this time she didn't back away. "You're just a stranger," she whispered. "You're just a stranger and you're the only person who's been nice to me."

"Stranger, friend—we're all human. That's why I can't leave you here, Signora. Please, just step away from the rail. Come here. It'll be alright."

The girl hesitated, and then to the driver's immense relief she began to step towards him. It was as if those first few steps gave her renewed courage, because then she hurried towards his outstretched arms. She buried her face into his chest. The driver rocked her back and forth, patting her back gently like he would with a child.

"Mamma said God had sent angels down to walk amongst us," the girl cried, her voice muffled against his dress shirt. "I didn't believe her before."

"Signora, I'm no angel," the driver replied gently.

"You are!" the girl insisted. "People feel only cold and prickly to the touch, but you—you feel warm. The first warmth I've _ever_ felt. You're an angel."

This time, the driver didn't correct her. After a moment, he said, "Let's get you home, Signora. Out of this cold. Come back into the taxi, and I'll drive you home. Free of charge." He let the girl go, but could feel her reluctance.

"I can't go home," she whispered. "That's where they are—that's where she is."

The driver hesitated. He wondered if maybe the girl was being abused, but she didn't look like it… not that he would know. From the way she was dressed, and the amount of money she had shoved into his hands, she seemed well off. There were obviously demons roaming in her life—the sort he couldn't come close to understanding. But all he could do was see her safe. All he could do was drive her home.

"Signora," he said, "I want you to make a promise."

The girl regarded him with her glassy eyes. "Promise you what?"

"Not to me. Make a promise to yourself. Think of it during the drive. By the time we get you back home, I want you to have named a way you'll change your life for the better, so that this bridge and everything that brought you here will be nothing but a bad, distant memory. Do you understand, Signora?"

"Yes."

He brought her back to the taxi. She gave him a new address, and the driver knew he could trust her this time. He made a U-turn on the bridge and drove back into the heart of the city. The ride was spent in silence, though the driver occasionally glanced at her through the rearview. She was a young, beautiful thing—probably around the age of his own daughter, if he had to guess. As he navigated the roads, he thanked God over and over again for sending him down that street when the girl had waved for a taxi. For letting him keep her from becoming a tragic story at the muddy bottom of a bridge. It couldn't have been a coincidence, so the driver called it a gift instead. A gift for his last day as a taxi driver—the only life he had ever known.

The house he pulled up to was enormous. The driver kept his shock internal as he gazed up at it. It was the kind of home he had only ever seen from a distance or on television. He drove slowly along the right side of the circular driveway and stopped by the stairs leading up to the front door. He heard the girl undo her seatbelt and turned to gather up the money piled on the passenger seat.

"Did you think of a promise, Signora?" he asked.

"I did. I promised myself that I'll feel a warmth like yours again, even if I have to make it myself."

"That's the spirit," the driver said. With the bills bundled in his hand, he held them out towards her. "Free of charge. That was my promise, wasn't it?"

There was a pause. "No," she said. "You keep it. As a gift, not payment." She had already opened the door before he could protest.

It was his last chance before she closed the door. Even if she needed a taxi again in the future, he wouldn't be the one driving it. Quickly, the driver said, "Have a good night, Signora. Have a good life."

"Thank you." It was her last words to him before the taxi door closed. He watched her climb up the steps. A woman emerged from inside the house, hurried down to her, and hugged her tightly. The driver noticed how the girl's arms remained at her sides.

He put the taxi back into drive and circled back around the driveway. As he was leaving, he glanced back up at the rearview and saw that the girl had pulled away from the woman's embrace and was watching him leave.

That night, the taxi driver went home. He unbuttoned his dress shirt and removed it, knowing he would never wear it again for the rest of his life.

He had never missed a day of work. He had driven people around Milan six days a week—sometimes a full seven because he was determined to be able to send his two kids to university. He had given himself barely any time to breath, and none at all to discover the tumor in his brain until it had gone to the point when the doctor told him that he had two years left. Eight months if he didn't receive treatment, and he hadn't because then there would have been no money left for his children's tuition.

If he'd had his way, he would have continued working until his very last day. But the headaches were getting worse, and he'd even had a seizure—though thankfully not while behind the wheel.

And so after the night he had driven a girl from the bridge to her home, the taxi driver retired to spend his last few months quietly fading in a hospital. He'd taken the money from the girl and handed it to his wife, telling her to add it to the savings account. He'd kissed her and told her to take the children and visit him in the hospital, but not too often because he knew that every visit would hurt them.

At the hospital, he made a ward mate who was in the same boat as him, though this man had undergone treatment for a year before giving it up. The ward mate was quiet and often kept to himself, spending the evenings with his face stuck into the latest additions of the Corriere Della Serra that the nurses would give him. On the rare occasions that the ward mate felt like talking, he would tell the driver of the stories he'd read about.

Then, a few days after he had been admitted to the hospital, the driver heard a story that made him sit up in shock. He told the ward mate to be clearer. And, as he listened to the news of a girl's body that had been found at the bottom of the bridge with short rails, he suddenly began crying. The ward mate was startled at his reaction and couldn't understand why this anonymous death had affected him so.

Weeks passed by and the driver's health continued to rapidly deteriorate. It got to the point where he was completely bedridden, was on constant medication to treat his terrible headaches, and spent most of his time sleeping. He was scared, yes. He knew it wouldn't be long. But at the same time, he was tired and ready to leave the pain behind.

One day a nurse approached him and told the driver that a visitor was here to see him. He was surprised—his family had come by just a few days ago. But it wasn't his wife and children who walked in today. It was a young woman with long chestnut curls. She carried with her a vase of flowers.

He saw the pearl necklace around her neck and, when she sat down next to him, looked into her eyes and remembered them. He reached out for her with his hands, and she took them with her own.

"I thought," he told her slowly with a weak voice, "when I heard the story in the Corriere…"

"I kept my promise," she told him quietly. "The one you made me make to myself." He was happy to hear it. He told her that her hair was very pretty, but she seemed to ignore the comment. He then asked her about school, and she replied that she was headed to London in a few months for university. That made him feel an almost fatherly pride.

She asked him if he'd known about the tumor on the night he drove her home. He answered truthfully. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Signora. You had enough troubles."

She didn't answer, and instead leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "I won't be sad," the girl said. "God is taking His angel back."

She stayed with him a while longer. He was already exhausted by the time she was getting ready to leave—he no longer stayed awake this long nowadays. But before she left, he remembered to finally ask for her name.

The girl quickly glanced around before leaning down towards him. In a low voice, she told him, "My name is Alessandra."

* * *

She had looked fearful at first when he stepped in and unplugged the curling iron. It had showed in her eyes when she looked up at him. He only stared back with his cool, calculating gaze and said to her, "You don't need it."

"What are you playing at?" she demanded softly.

Stefano's hand came down over the warm curling iron and scooted it down the bathroom counter and away from her. She could have sworn her heart was beating loud enough to hear. "Alessandra, amore mio…" The mention of her name— _her_ name—after all these years made her heart skip a beat. "The jig is up. Why keep hiding?" His fingers crept into her hairline, combing through the length of her straight tresses. "This—this is what I've been waiting for. I married a cocoon, knowing that one day the seams would burst apart and what would emerge from the ruined husk would be…" He trailed off, though she could see the end of his sentence within his eye.

Alessandra turned away and stared warily into the mirror. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she'd seen that face. "What do I have," she asked bitterly, "that Celestina didn't?"

"What kind of artist would I be had it not been for your inspiration?" Stefano said. "The voice of creation I heard—it wasn't coming from the lips I saw. It came from the ones underneath. Hidden. But you couldn't really hide from me, could you?" Alessandra watched him in the mirror as he moved behind her, gripping her arms gently. "The entirely different animal wandering until she found another one. Oh, she stayed under that sheepskin, but I recognized that scent as soon as I came across it." He turned his head, burying his face in her hair, and breathed in deeply. She felt the heat of his breath as he continued, "Being married to that silly brat—it was fun for a while. But you of all people should know that every good performance needs a close. Dragged on for too long, it loses its shine. So, amore, the curtains have closed and the performers have shed their costumes. It's time to show me your true face."

* * *

The lacerations inflicted from the birthday party still stung deep within her chest. For next day, she stayed confined in her room. The porcelain ballerina was her only companion. She spun on her platform, playing her soft lullaby.

Alessandra lay on her side, watching the light fade through her window. She thought about the warmth she had felt that night. _Signora, I want you to make a promise_.

Her hands tightened, bundling the sheets firm in her grip. _I promised myself that I would feel warmth again. And if this home won't show me any, I'll burn it down to feel it._

The lullaby drew to a close and the ballerina stopped her pirouette. Alessandra didn't know what pushed her to get out of bed. Whatever it was, it told her to pick the music box up and carry it with her. With it tucked under her arm, Alessandra opened her door, crossed the hallway, and opened the one to Celestina's room.

The room was empty, but she knew her sister was there. The bathroom light was on. As she neared the lit doorway, Alessandra felt the slight dampness from the finished shower cling to her skin.

Celestina was standing in front of the mirror, blow-drying her hair. She didn't notice Alessandra until she was standing in the doorway. When she finally did see, Celestina gave a little jump and frowned. Setting down the blow dryer, she said, "Lessy! Don't just barge in like that, just because I do!" She placed her hands on her hips. "What do you want?"

"You still haven't apologized."

"For what? For slapping you in front of everyone?" Celestina scoffed. "You were asking for it, drunken mess that you were. If anything, you should be apologizing to Mamma and Papa for running off like a crybaby. Mamma kept freaking out about how you'd never come home. But I knew you would—you always do eventually."

"Do you _enjoy_ this?" Alessandra suddenly demanded. "Being so horrible to me? Grinding me to the ground time and time again?"

"Enjoy it? Like some kind of freak?" Celestina retorted. "You make it too easy, Lessy. You're an oddball. You make people uncomfortable. Why would anyone be nice to you?" She turned back to the counter, and Alessandra saw her stick a hand over the curling iron to test its heat. "But don't worry, we'll soon be far apart where you won't have to hear me and I won't have to look at you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not going to the University of Milan like you are. Papa is sending me to the Royal Academy—in London, you know."

"You're leaving?" Alessandra said, wide-eyed.

"What's with that tone, Lessy? I thought you'd be glad to see me go. Oh, but I'll come home for Christmas. Our _favorite_ holiday."

Alessandra clenched her teeth together. Her pulse pounded through her veins, and within it some quiet voice murmured. "No," she growled. "No… I won't let you."

Celestina looked up at her sister, her brow furrowing. "What?"

"I won't let you go off and get the happy endings that you _don't_ deserve, Cellie. I won't let you get away." She took a step into the bathroom. The terrified look that suddenly appeared on her sister's face gave Alessandra a rush she had never known before.

"Lessy—!"

"People only love you because of what's above your skin, Cellie. But I know you—the real you. You're ugly, hideous. And if people could see what I do, no one would love you! Then you'd how it feels to be…" She took another step, crossing into the doorway.

"The entirely."

Celestina shrank back.

"Different."

The hand holding the music box clenched so tightly that it shook.

 _"Animal!"_

Celestina suddenly shrieked, and as she did she flew forward and tried to run past Alessandra. With wide, crazed eyes, Alessandra turned after her sister. The music box flew up. Its corner struck Celestina's skull with a sickening crack.

The scream cut away to dense silence. Her body collapsed on the ground. The edges of Alessandra's vision were starting to creep in as she looked down. The tile underneath her sister's head was stained in droplets of red. Celestina twitched. From her mouth came choked breaths, though to Alessandra's ears they were as loud as screams. Or maybe that sound was the shrill ringing that rattled in her head.

Panicked quickened Alessandra's heart. She couldn't let anyone hear—she had to stop the sound! Dropping down onto her knees, she clamped both hands over Celestina's lower face. Her sister stared at her, struggling meekly. Alessandra kept her grip tight over Celestina's nose and mouth, hissing, "Shhhh! Shhhh!" and hoping that no one would hear the screaming that filled her ears.

Finally, after what felt like years and years of agony, Celestina stopped moving. Her eyes no longer bore into Alessandra, and instead stared listlessly up at the ceiling. And, more importantly, the screaming had stopped.

Suddenly, Alessandra let out a gasp. She pulled her hands away and peered down at her sister. She wasn't moving… she wasn't moving at all.

"Cellie?" Alessandra whispered. "Cellie? I—I didn't mean it." She looked up at the music box, and then back down at Celestina. Reaching down, Alessandra tilted Celestina's head and saw with horror that there was blood filling the seams between the tiles. She quickly fell back and scooted until her back hit the base of the bathroom counter. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, and she fought to pull in breaths.

Then, in a quiet voice, Alessandra said, "I feel… I feel warm." She slowly looked up to where the warmth was coming from. A hand rose to grip the edge of the bathroom counter as Alessandra pulled herself up onto her feet. And then she saw it, sitting there on top of the marble. The silent witness.

Alessandra stuck her hand out and hovered it over the curling iron. The air around it felt warm.

She found a dress from her closet—a pretty silver one. It had been one of her favorites. She dressed the body in it. Then she took a pair of ankle-strap shoes and left them by the window.

After her shower, Celestina's hair had returned to its natural straightness. And in that silver dress, she looked exactly like… the perfect way out.

Alessandra opened the window and felt the cool night air rush in. She dragged the body over and pushed it out. A loud crunch came from the flattened shrubbery on the ground below. Next, Alessandra tossed the shoes out as well. She made one last trip to her room to retrieve her car keys.

She kept the headlights off as she drove the silver Bugatti out to the side of the house. There, she retrieved the body and shoes and stowed them away in the car's small trunk before steering around the circular driveway and away from the house. Once she was on the road, she turned her headlights on.

It was a miracle she didn't manage to smash into anything, given how hard her hands were shaking and fast her heart was racing. Her eyes flew to every headlight she passed, terrified that each one would know what she'd done and what was curled up under the silver hood.

Finally, the car slowed as it came up onto a bridge. It steered onto the emergency lane, where it came to a complete stop. Turning her head, Alessandra looked out the right-side window and saw the short railing next to the car. She reached out and opened the car door, but quickly yanked it shut when a car flew past in the lane next to her. Alessandra watched the car speed away, trying to steady her shallow breaths. Through the window, she glanced around for any other passing vehicles. The bridge was dark and empty.

Quickly, Alessandra popped the hood open and got out of the car. She came around to the front. In the dim moonlight, she could just make out the silhouette of the huddled form. With one last glance around, Alessandra heaved the body out. The weight of it in her arms made it feel as though Celestina was struggling to break free.

 _This is what you deserve!_ Alessandra screamed in her head. _This is what_ I _deserve!_ She was up at the railings now, pressing against it. The overwhelming urge to jump had returned to her, an unseen hand pulling at her from the darkness below.

And so she let go, and felt lightheaded during the fall. Then came the sharp thud of impact, which woke her up like a slap. She stood there for a moment, feeling confused yet determined at the same time. Returning to the car, Alessandra retrieved the shoes and closed the trunk and door. She went to the rails and placed the shoes onto the ground next to them.

Alessandra peeked over, but the darkness had swallowed the sight of her sister up. She was hoping to at least catch the faintest glimpse—capture a mental snapshot of this moment. But the moon tonight wasn't bright enough.

Finally, Alessandra dangled the car keys over the edge. Before she let them go, she whispered, "Here, in case you want to make your way back home." Her fingers parted and the keys too disappeared into the depths.

A taxi was driving along the road with its sign lit when the driver spotted a girl waving for him. She got into the back and gave him an address, telling him to take her home.

* * *

How Mamma and Papa cried at the news. Papa shut himself in the study and, for the next week, only emerged for the funeral. The moment they stepped back into the house, he disappeared back into his self-made prison. She and Mamma, still dressed in their funeral black, sat quietly in the living room. She watched as her mother dabbed away the last traces of her tears with her damp handkerchief.

Celestina had been surprised at how many people had been there for Alessandra's funeral. She had watched how some cried and others mourned in solemn silence. The pastor had spoken beautiful words in Alessandra's memory. As did Papa. As did several others. Celestina had listened closely to all of them, taking in each and every word.

Francesco had been there too. He had sat next to Celestina. During service he'd taken her hand, but Celestina for whatever reason quickly pulled it away. He figured it must've been because of the grief.

When the gathering dispersed to leave, Francesco quickly caught Celestina before she reached her family's car. He hugged her, and then kissed her. Celestina wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. When they parted, he whispered to her, "I'll visit you in London, okay?"

Celestina, who had her lips pressed against Francesco's shoulder, lifted them just slightly to murmur back, "Alessandra is gone forever and you are already making future plans with me?"

"Stellina, _you_ are the one I love. You're the one still here." He gazed down at her. "Remember what we talked about before your party? Of course I'm thinking about our future."

Celestina looked back up at him, though her eyes held none of the affection that Francesco's had. "You don't feel warm," she told him simply. "Not like I thought you would." She pulled away from him and headed to the car.

Sitting here now in the living room, Celestina watched her mother. "Did you really mean all those things you said at the funeral?" she suddenly demanded. Her mother looked up, startled.

"Of course I did, cara. Alessandra was my life, my love. And now she's gone, but I still can't bear to believe it."

"What about… me?"

"Please." Her mother looked weather-beaten. "Don't start this again—not now."

"I'm just saying," Celestina insisted, her voice growing slightly irate. "If you loved her, why did you never tell her while she was still here?"

 _"I tried_ , Celestina! You saw me—I tried everything in my power to show Alessandra that I was still her mother and loved her as one, but she was just too—too _different!"_ Looking thoroughly upset, her mother rose to her feet. "I… I don't want to talk about this." With that, she hurried out of the living room.

* * *

Acardi Club Milano was a mix of sophistication and sleaziness—like a cocktail with the perfect mix of both. An irresistible taste that hid the poison underneath. It sat on the east side of Milan, hidden away at day but impossible to miss at night. It was the kind of club that everyone wanted in on, but very few people did. Two bouncers in fine dress that hid none of their bulky physiques always stood watch at the door. Inside, there was even another that guarded the entrance to the VIP lounge.

But what kept the uninvited away weren't the bouncers that always looked ready to cave heads in. It was the name attached to the club itself. And if there was one rule whispered within the underbelly of the city, even among its law enforcement, it was that no one was to mess with the Acardis.

But… okay, sure—even with those whispers flying around, the terror inflicted just at the mention of his surname, Raffaele Acardi didn't feel all that menacing. But he loved the importance his family name gave him, and he _loved_ the luxury. Maybe he wasn't as formidable as Papa or Nonno, who really ran the family, but who cares? He was still young and there was still an endless supply of booze and women waiting for him.

To that end, Acardi Club Milano was a goldmine—endless drinks for him on the house and the prettiest girls in all of Milan waiting in line for a chance on his lap. Raffaele had instructed the VIP bouncer to let any single girls in without question. And even if they lied about being unattached, it didn't matter to him so long as they were willing to keep up the lie for the night.

Tonight, as he stepped into the lounge, his eyes were immediately drawn to the bar. There was a girl sitting at the counter, a Bellini in one hand. Now if there was one sight Raffaele couldn't stand, it was a pretty piece drinking alone.

He perched himself on the stool next to her and introduced himself. As always, as soon as she heard his surname, her eyes lit up with wonder. Snared like a rabbit. Raffaele knew he wasn't going home alone tonight.

He made a show of waving the bartender over. Still holding the girl's gaze, Raffaele said, "Whatever her tab is, erase it." The bartender, of course, obliged without question. Nodding towards the plush leather booths at the other end of the lounge, Raffaele asked if she wanted to take a seat with him. The girl took her drink and followed him to a corner booth. As they walked over, Raffaele didn't miss the looks of stark jealousy the other ladies in the lounge were flashing over. _Don't worry_ , he thought smugly. _There's plenty of me to go around_. And he knew they'd all wait for their turns.

When they were nestled together in the booth, Raffaele wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders and asked for her name.

"Celestina."

"Pretty name for a prettier girl."

She gave a tinkling laugh at his remark. As she did, Raffaele studied her closely. She was gorgeous—straight up fuckable. He'd make sure she was allowed to be a regular to the club and, by extension, his bed.

Brashly, Raffaele reached with his other hand and gently tugged one of her curls, watching it bounce back as he released it. Suddenly, he felt her place a hand on his knee.

"Raffaele." She purred his name, and the way she did made him long for her to move her hand up closer. "I've heard that you're a bad boy."

Well, it was true that he and his older brothers liked to rough people up—make the people Nonno wanted gone disappear. But a girl like Celestina didn't have anything to fear, not with a face and body like that. He flashed her a grin. "You don't have to worry," he told her. "I'll be a good boy if you want."

Her hand suddenly slid up his thigh, and he felt the sensation pulse through him like electricity. "Don't be."

He was starting to like this girl more and more. It was time to ditch this club and get to a place that was a little more private, more intimate. And more well lit so he could watch her undress. With his face still leaned close to Celestina's, he have a slight jerk of his head towards the door. "Why don't we get out of here?"

The girl responded only by gently biting her lower lip.

* * *

Celestina, Raffaele declared to himself, had been without a doubt the best lay he'd ever had. He'd never known exhaustion like this before, and it had for some reason left him more satisfied than ever. He heard the noises coming from the bathroom and quietly waited for Celestina to come back to him. When she lay back down, Raffaele scooted over to wrap his arms around her and pin her body against his. Normally he liked having his own bed to sleep in, and usually kicked the girl out after he'd had his fill.

But there was something about Celestina. He craved the feeling of her skin and the softness of her body like a drug. They'd have another rough, wild go in the morning, Raffaele decided, and then he'd boot her out onto the street. They never liked that treatment, but they always came back for more anyway.

As dawn settled, he made good on his word. He had her pinned against the mattress, grunting heavily into her neck, when he heard her say it.

"I love you."

He was always disappointed whenever a girl let slip those damning three words. It meant he'd have to tell the VIP bouncer that she was no longer welcomed in the lounge. And honestly, how could any girl think that _the_ Raffaele Acardi would settle for just her?

He was in the middle of deliberating whether to ignore Celestina's words and carry on until climax, or cut things short and disappoint her with a not-so-mutual reply. Lifting his head, Raffaele looked down at her. But as soon as their eyes met, he froze. There was something in her gaze he couldn't stop staring back at. It nearly made him miss the realization that Celestina had her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him down like a prisoner. He began shivering, though he couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or something else. Whatever it was, it forced the words out of him.

"I love you too."

Raffaele's two brothers were the first to learn that the impossible happened—that their little brother, the biggest lech in all of northern Italy, was in a relationship. When they saw her, they found it a little easier to understand though they were still chuckling in disbelief. Little Raffy was the guy who thought with his dick first at all times—and without a doubt this was no different. They figured he just wanted to keep this one around a little longer, as much of a catch as she was. But it wouldn't be long, they knew, before he would miss the thrill of the chase and the one night stands. They thought _he_ was being the manipulative one.

They didn't notice the change at first because it only slowly began to creep in whenever he was around her. When Celestina wasn't near him, he was the same old Raffaele they always knew. They didn't see the thin strings attached to him. They didn't feel it pulling at their own limbs. They didn't, until they murdered Francesco Casale.

They had long forgotten why. They had long forgotten why they pulled him into that dark room, why they tied him into that chair. Why they used hands and tools to break and rip and twist things from his body to make him scream and bleed.

But she didn't forget. With a nail filer in one hand, a leg crossed daintily over the other, she reclined comfortably in her plush little armchair. And when she asked Raffaele to move out of the way so she could get a better view, Francesco saw her. And he pleaded with her, begging her to tell him why she was doing this. It was then that she finally lowered the filer. Her legs uncrossed and she planted both feet firmly down as she leaned forward.

"Why?" she repeated softly. Then, in a voice that grew louder with each word, she said, "Because I want you hear you squeal, little mouse!" With that, she leaned back, resumed filing her nails, and let the show continue.

After a while, she yawned and stood. "I'm getting bored," she announced. "Wrap this up. And Raffy…" Her tone became sultry. "Meet me upstairs when you're done."

It took a long time for the coroners to identify the body found washed ashore on the river as Francesco Casale. And when the news made rounds on all channels, it was then Mamma Acardi had discovered what her boys had done. She confronted them, and they stayed in stoic silence as they listened to their mother's tirade.

"Do you understand what you have _done?"_ she demanded. "That was Casale's boy! You _cannot_ just kill anyone you please! You _cannot_ run the Acardi name through the mud like that! How on earth did this happen?"

In a very small voice, Raffaele was the first and only to answer. "Celestina."

At that her name, Mamma's eyes were lit afire. "That girl," she seethed, "is nothing but trouble. _Nothing but trouble!_ Do you hear me, Raffaele?"

"But—!"

"She cannot be a part of this family! Will not! You separate yourself from her, or I will bring this up to Nonno." At that, Raffaele's eyes widened. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mamma."

Raffaele was hesitant to give Celestina the news. He had, by now, convinced himself that he was utterly in love with her. But perhaps it was better this way, he reasoned. He had never been a man of commitment, and planned to stay that way until his family forced him to get hitched. He didn't know what it was about Celestina that made him change, but now was the chance to finally take his life back.

He wasn't sure how she would take the news. He'd expected her to scream and cry and hit him at the very least. But there was none of that. Celestina was eerily quiet. Raffaele saw the stark displeasure in her eyes, but whatever else was on her mind was completely veiled.

Suddenly, she surprised him by saying, "Your mother really does care about you, doesn't she?"

Raffaele blinked. "Yes, I guess she does."

"You've broken my heart, Raffy. Before we part, can we have one last night together? Just one? After that, you'll never see me again. It'll be goodbye forever."

Raffaele hesitated, but Celestina had pressed up against him. Her arms were draped around his neck, and her fingernails gently scratched the back of his neck just the way he liked it.

"Sure. One more night."

The next day, Celestina was gone from Milan and on her flight to London. No one saw Raffaele until a maid let out a scream from his room. They found him slumped over the foot of his bed, a bullet wound in his temple and a handgun loosely gripped in his hand. There was a note on the floor by his foot. On it was only one sentence scrawled in messy hand:

 _Il diavolo é una donna._


	24. Performance of the Mad

Last night, some unnatural frenzy seemed to have possessed him, turning him more aggressive and wild than he had ever been when she'd called herself Celestina. The brutality had frightened her, and yet never before had he felt so _warm_.

Alessandra had long given up hope that she would ever find her Francesco. The men she had found herself with never felt warm—so she had turned brother against brother, spurred friends to murder friends, and convinced lovers to take their own lives just so she could feel the flames radiating from their bodies as they burned.

She'd her fair share of narcissists—they were easy pickings. Easily fed. Easily coerced. Easily made paranoid and delusional with the right words whispered at the right tone.

She'd danced with psychopaths. Dangerous as they were, they were ever so useful with what they were capable of doing. Cold-blooded and violent—quite good at making things burn so she could hold her hands up to the flames. Egocentric as they were, she knew they would never love her on an emotional level, so she fed their carnal cravings instead. Just a few nights, and she would have them hooked to the addiction.

And when they became too dangerous for her, it was time to cut the strings. The deaths were tragic, but they were never questioned. No one noticed that the same woman was always there, crying and seen as nothing more than a heartbroken, mourning lover. No one saw that as soon as she turned away, the tears were gone.

Another useful psychopath—that's what Alessandra thought she had in her hands when a man in the back halls of the opera house had handed her a rose. Now… she wasn't so sure. The gold band on her finger told her that this was different. By all means, it shouldn't have even been there. If the need to cut the strings came, a husband was harder to get rid of than a boyfriend without raising eyebrows.

He called himself an artist, but the things he created were putrid. Despite what Alessandra had him and the world thinking, she never shared in his tastes. What he created were corpses and nothing more—but more important to her was whom he made them from. The stealers of _her_ spotlight, the ones who reminded her too much of her sister.

All these years she had silently resented everyone—even him—for adoring Celestina so. Every round of applause she had ever been graced with was for her sister. Even though she felt it on her own lips, every lover's kiss had been for Celestina. Hell, it was even printed on the marriage certificate in the Krimson City Registry that Stefano was married to a Celestina Amonte.

And even though every bit of admiration drove the woman under the mask that much more insane with hatred, she had been afraid of taking it off. She was afraid that the applause and kisses would go away. She had seen it happen time and time again.

So why, then, had he stayed instead of turning away? She remembered how he had pulled her to bed like he'd wanted nothing else and left her breathless and shaking by the end of it all.

Why? He'd told her why as they lay together. "I used to be fine just being on my own," he told her. With her eyes closed, Alessandra listened as his voice drifted through the darkness. "The one brilliant mind alone in a sea of dullards. But truth be told, we were never fine, were we, amore? We called isolation comfortable because we had no choice. And then, in a twist of fate, the two of us came upon the crossroads and locked eyes. There's no turning back. Would you call it pitiable how much we need one another now?"

Alessandra didn't want to answer. Chained to her own puppet—the notion was wholly ironic, yet unfortunately true. She rolled into his side and rested an arm across his chest, basking in the warmth. "Is that so bad?"

The following morning, she arose from bed long after he did and redressed in the clothes that had lay discarded on the floor. Stefano had already left the house, probably to do whatever was needed to continue tricking the world into thinking he had some semblance of sanity.

Staying at home. Looking forward into the week and having nothing planned. It felt wrong and unnatural. Alessandra sighed heavily as she leaned on the plush armrest and gazed out the window. La Contessa had sung her last. In a few months, she'd turn 32—an old woman by show business standards.

She should have started a family. She should have had a little girl.

Alessandra's head snapped up when she heard the sharp knocking. Letting out an aggravated huff, she rolled her eyes and ignored it. She rose to her feet and walked over to the TV to switch it on. It was already set to the channel that broadcasted past performances from the Krimson City opera house. Once it had served as a good way to do a little… hunting.

But the broadcast was currently in between performances. An anchor was talking to the camera, but Alessandra wasn't listening to whatever they were saying. She heard the knocking again, and her brow furrowed with annoyance at this persistent visitor. Well, even if they heard the television, they'd soon get the idea that they weren't welcomed.

But the knocking continued—a maddeningly slow rhythm that hadn't changed since Alessandra first heard it. Giving in, she stood and marched to the front door. She flung it open, ready to confront whatever thick-skulled nuisance had the gall to bother her.

But what she found was an empty porch. No one was there, and no package rested anywhere. Alessandra looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of any possible troublemakers trying to flee the scene of the crime. Suddenly, she froze.

The knocking was still there. It was coming from behind her.

Slowly, Alessandra looked over her shoulder. She couldn't see where it was coming from, but it echoed from within the building. _Knock… knock… knock…_ Like the slow tapping of footsteps.

Alessandra shut the front door. She followed the sound, her feet moving slowly. As it grew louder, her eyes fell on the closet door. She moved towards it. Reaching out, she cupped the doorknob in her palm and turned it.

All had grown silent as she opened the closet door. Darkness and the dim silhouettes of hung clothes greeted her. With her eyes still focused on the dark shapes, Alessandra reached to the side and flicked the lights on. No one was there.

But she wasn't convinced. Rushing forward, Alessandra began pushing blouses and dresses out of the way. She kicked the heels aside that had been discarded haphazardly on the floor and hurried to the other side of the closet. There were lined Stefano's crisp dress shirts, arranged by color. Carelessly, Alessandra shoved through them as she continued to hunt down the intruder. Again, she found nothing but the white plaster walls between the clothes.

The knocking returned. Alessandra's body tensed. She turned.

There was movement in the gilded, full-length mirror. She saw the impossible reflection of a hand coming from within the mirror, reaching and gently knocking against the glass surface. From where she stood, Alessandra couldn't see whom the hand belonged to. Fear traced her every movement as she stepped towards it. As she drew near, the hand retracted. Alessandra moved in front of the mirror and found herself confronted by her own reflection, staring back with identical wide, shaken eyes.

She stood and waited, but the reflection did nothing but mimic her stillness. Suddenly, the lights overhead flickered. They flickered again. Then they died, giving away to complete darkness. It lasted only for a second before they returned. Alessandra saw her reflection.

No… No, the woman standing there behind the glass had her back turned. She wore a red dress, and her hair fell down her back in swooping, lazy curls. Her arms were hidden in front of her as though she were holding something.

Alessandra saw the head turn just slightly. And then she heard her, as well as the smile in her voice.

"Hello Lessy," the woman in the mirror greeted. "Long time no see."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" she repeated. And then she began to turn. As she did, Alessandra saw that she was cradling something against her chest. It came into view—a bundle. "I already have what I want."

Alessandra saw the bundle shift. As it did, a corner of the dark blue blanket fell down. The inside of the blanket was dark and wet, and from the corner dripped red.

"Isn't she beautiful, Lessy? My own little angel."

Suddenly, Alessandra rushed forward. The glass barricaded her from reaching the woman. Desperately, she slammed her hands on the mirror's surface. "You—you give her back!"

"Didn't you say it yourself? I always just take and take and take… Look what I've taken now." The woman gazed adoringly down at the bundle. It shifted again, and Alessandra heard the soft wailing of an infant's cries.

"Give her back, Cellie!" She slammed her hands over and over again against the glass. The mirror shuddered against the wall. "She's crying for her mamma! She's crying for _me!_ Give her back! Give her back!"

The lights disappeared again, plunging her into darkness. When they came back on, Alessandra saw nothing but her tear-streaked face in the mirror. She backed away, as did her reflection.

She was gone. And she had taken…

"Where did you go?" Alessandra demanded furiously. "Cellie, where've you gone?" There was no answer.

And then she heard it—the crisp notes of a piano. The elegant chords of a concluding song, followed by applause. Alessandra stepped out of the closet and followed the sound. She stopped in front of the television. The shot switched from the clapping audience to a beaming anchor.

"There she is!" the anchor announced. "They're already calling her the Petit Maîtresse. Now wasn't that something?" The broadcast immediately switched to a shot of the stage where the young woman at the piano was rising to her feet to give the audience a bow. At the sight of her, Alessandra's eyebrows crashed angrily over her eyes.

"There you are," she hissed between clenched teeth.

* * *

She was supposed to have left the theater 15 minutes ago, but she had been sucked into the social media black hole and was caught up with all the posts and incoming messages flooding her phone. With a sigh, she finally shut off the screen and slipped the phone into her bag. It was either leave now and get home late because of traffic, or leave later and get home later because of traffic—Krimson City's roads were always packed.

Clyde had once suggested having a chauffer get her from home to the theater and vice versa, but she liked the freedom of getting around on her own. Besides, it was Friday and she was looking forward to a long-anticipated get-together with some old friends.

As she stepped out into the hallway, the clicking of heels caught her attention. She looked and saw someone coming down the corridor. A bundle of roses was in the woman's arms, tied together by a gold ribbon. Immediately, she recognized the woman, and her eyes widened.

"La Contessa!" she said excitedly. "Wow, it's really you!"

She saw Celestina gave a little wave of her hand as she gave an airy chuckle. "Oh, cara, there really is no need for that," she purred softly.

Her eyes went down to the roses. "Are those for me?"

"They are!" Celestina replied, holding them out. "What a wonderful performance you gave. You practically had the entire audience entranced." She took the roses from Celestina. The woman leaned forward and gave two quick little pecks on both of her cheeks.

"That really means a lot coming from you. You were my biggest inspiration growing up, you know."

Celestina smiled. "Days long past, I'm afraid," she said. Suddenly, the chestnut-haired woman reached out and touched her arm. "Mia cara, I've an idea! You simply _must_ come over for dinner some time! I'd love to hear about what you've been up to these past few years!"

"Oh… Oh really?" she stammered back. "That's… I'd love to!"

"It's settled then! Come—let's talk and walk." Celestina hooked her arm into the young woman's and started walking her down the hall. "The thing is, cara, you'll have to keep this a little secret. Not a word of this to anyone—spoken or typed. Do you understand?"

"Well…" The young woman sounded a little flustered. "Alright, if that's what you want…"

"Oh, no—don't think I mean it like that! You're new to this show business world. There's so many unspoken rules—so many do's and don'ts that could make or break you." Celestina stopped walking, turned to the girl, and took her shoulders in both hands. "It simply wouldn't look well, not well _at all_ , if it were known that you were mingling with an old retired bird like me. Especially since Clyde used to be my manager. Speaking of which…" Celestina leaned a little closer. "He'd probably have a questionable thing or two to say if he knew about this little arrangement. All the better to keep on the down low, hmm? As you'll soon learn, you won't even be able to blow your nose without your manager knowing about it."

Celestina leaned back, and her smile was as warm and inviting as ever. "Which, of course, makes you wonder why I even bother with all this, don't you? If there's one thing I've learned, cara, it's that life is too short to let restrictions dictate you. I'm just hoping that we can be friends. You remind me so much of myself at your age."

The young woman gave a disbelieving laugh. "Me? Like Celestina Amonte? I don't think so!"

"Don't be so sure," Celestina said.

* * *

Stefano was tired by the time he walked through his door—tired of dealing with imbeciles and tired of dimwitted critics strutting around in shoes too big for their feet. He was ready to shed his sheepskin and let the real artist emerge. It was time for the Krimson City Killer to make another piece—though he had to admit that the alias given to him by his audience was a little too unsophisticated for his liking.

Nevertheless, with that alias came recognition he so yearned for. But this too came to him warped. Instead of sung praises, the newspapers called him horrific. They referred to his pieces as abominations, acts of unimaginable villainy against humanity. Well, he couldn't have gotten it all. Why ask for the moon?

He thought of the singer at the gala. She'd been easy on the eyes—rather short in stature compared to his other works, but that hardly mattered. He already knew exactly what composition she would make up.

Greeting him as he entered through the door were the live notes of a piano. Stefano saw Alessandra's head peeking up from above the instrument's glossy black top. He had grown to learn that she played in both times of deep joy and agitation. Recently, though, it was getting harder and harder to tell the difference.

Stefano saw her eyes flicker up at him for the briefest of moments before returning to the keys. As he strode past, he loosened the knot of his tie and pulled it away with a sharp yank. He discarded it over the back of a nearby chair and turned to head back to the piano. As the song ended, Stefano spoke up. "Amore," he said, "I've quite the idea for my next work. That girl—she'll do nicely. I think it's time for my little siren to start singing."

Alessandra, though no longer playing, kept her fingers rested lightly over the ivory keys. "Cast her from your mind," she suddenly told him.

At this, Stefano hesitated. "What?"

"She's not the right one. I've found a much better medium for you."

Stefano didn't answer at first. He found this sudden taking of the reins unwelcomed. Alessandra may be his muse, but _he_ was the artist. The work was _his_ to dictate. Before he could voice his dissatisfaction, Alessandra spoke again.

"Understand, darling, that this one is no ordinary girl. I want this one for myself—just until she screams her last and I get my silence back. And then, should you desire it, you can use her for your work as you see fit." Alessandra rose. She stepped over to him, letting her gait bounce flirtatiously. "Won't you let me have this, my darling little photographer? It's important to me."

Stefano was already intrigued, and the feeling of Alessandra undoing his topmost shirt button and stroking his collarbones with feather-light touches sweetened the deal. "Well amore, if it means so much to you, how can I object?"

Her eyes lit up, and Stefano saw the spark of madness within them. "You are so good to me," she purred. She smoothed down his collar with a hand. "Now go and find something nice to wear. This will be a performance I want you dressed in your best for."

For the next few days, he waited—curious to see what his muse had planned for him. He could already feel that this was going to be his greatest one yet, at least until the next.

Then the day before her promised performance, Alessandra had one more surprise for him. Her eyes were afire as she pulled him aside. Without a word, she had taken one of Stefano's hands and placed it over her stomach.

It should have come at no surprise, yet Stefano still had trouble putting his thoughts to words. Alessandra gazed up at him and said, "You'll get your little maestro."

Her words were still ringing in his ears the next evening when the doorbell rang. Alessandra hurried to answer it, her dark red, chiffon evening gown ruffling around her ankles. Stefano caught the sharply sweet smell of her chestnut curls as they fluttered. Tonight was the night of her performance, and so his muse had put her mask back on to play her part.

Stefano listened as she answered the door, greeting someone with wonderfully curated joy. She asked the guest for her coat, still chatting away. Then, as they walked deeper into the house, Alessandra called out, "Stefano, darling, come meet our guest!" On cue, he approached the women. He took the few seconds that it took to cross the distance between them to examine this one.

She was pretty, though she wasn't one who would stand out to Stefano in a crowd. Her medium length hair was a lovely shade of coppery brown, but other than that Stefano found nothing else striking about her. No, this one wasn't fit for that masterpiece he had in mind. He'd save that for the pretty little singer from the gala.

That was Stefano's thinking until the guest introduced herself and he learned of her name. Upon hearing it, Stefano's eye widened with fanatical fascination.

 _"Really?"_

He saw the girl's smile grow slightly uneasy and quickly tempered his avidity. "Your reputation precedes you, Signora. It's no wonder my wife was so eager to befriend you."

The nervousness disappeared. "Oh, that really isn't—."

"Cara!" Alessandra interrupted in a playfully chiding tone. _"Never_ undersell yourself! You are a prize to the musical world and you must never forget that. Now!" With a clap of her hands, Alessandra hurried past Stefano and into the kitchen. "Which bottle are we opening tonight? Chianti?"

"With antipasto? Go with a white."

Alessandra returned with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and an opener in one hand, and a trio of glasses balanced in the other. She handed them to Stefano, saying, "Start us with a glass, won't you darling? I'll go fetch the platter."

Stefano set about opening the bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the girl as she sat quietly at the table. "Tell me, dear, are you from Krimson City?"

"Oh, no, my family's from San Francisco."

"Ah. And are your parents here now?"

The girl paused. "Actually, they died when I was little."

"I'm sorry to hear that." As soon as the cork was out, he tipped the pale wine into the glasses.

"It's okay. It was a long time ago."

"Do you've any family in town?" Stefano asked, already anticipating the answer.

"Yeah… a brother."

"Hmm, that's good. It doesn't do to be alone, isn't that right?" As he finished pouring out the third glass, Alessandra came with the antipasto platter. "It's just the appetizer, mind you," she said.

 _"Just_ an appetizer?"

Alessandra gave a light, tinkling laugh. "A standard size for appetizers back home, yes."

"If that's the case, how do you manage to stay in shape?"

"I found ways, especially since my career depended on it." Alessandra gave a wistful sigh. Then, as if to distract herself, she suddenly lifted her glass. "Well, here's to a wonderful evening, and…" Looking at the girl, she continued, "A very close friendship for us. I'm sure this will lead to something… marvelous."

"Hear, hear," the girl replied lightheartedly over the sound of touching glass. Though Alessandra cordially moved the glass to her lips after the toast, the wine remained at the bottom of the swell. Then, she rested it on the table, where it remained for the rest of the evening. After her sip, the girl asked, "So how did the two of you meet? I remember being so shocked and elated at the news!"

At the question, Stefano and Alessandra glanced at one another. The corner of Alessandra's mouth tugged up into a smile, and quickly she lifted a hand to touch her cheek in a display of bashfulness.

"I attended a few of her performances," Stefano spoke up. "Was star-struck by each and every one. As soon as I laid eyes on her, I knew I _had_ to have her."

"I remember when I first met him," Alessandra piped up. "He came up to me after everyone else had left. To say I was charmed would be an understatement."

"That's so sweet!" the girl sighed. "Maybe my future boyfriend will be in the audience one day."

"You mean you've not got anyone?" Alessandra said in awe, lifting a hand to plant over her chest. "I simply don't believe you! Such a lovely thing as you are!"

"No one right now," the girl replied, a little flushed at Alessandra's words.

"Well, early days, cara. I once thought I'd never find the man of my dreams."

The rest of the evening carried on amiably with pleasant chatter over dinner. All the while, Stefano silently wondered where this performance was going. But a performance it was—gone was the broken woman with the cracked mask. Alessandra had reclaimed the role of her sister flawlessly, acting as a living embodiment of that charming socialite.

When dinner came to a close, their guest made hints about whether it was time to leave. Alessandra waved them off, insisting she stay for a bit longer. "I've something very exciting to tell you!" Alessandra said, taking the girl's hand and leading her towards the sofa. "I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you because—well, I'm just being silly! Sit!" Alessandra had settled down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her.

With her capturing the girl's attention in its entirety, Stefano was allowed to become a silent audience.

"What is it?"

"Oh, not now!" Alessandra said with a wave. "First, I must ask you…" They chattered away. Stefano could see the hidden excitement emerging more and more in his wife's face—not for the telling of the news, but what was coming up in her script.

Finally, Alessandra's hands shot out and grabbed the girl's. "Cara!" she said in an enlivened whisper. "I'm telling this only to you—but please, not a word of this to anyone else!"

"I promise I won't let it get out of this house."

"I'm sure it won't," Alessandra replied. She leaned towards the girl. "Listen—I'm having a child!"

Judging by the look of unadulterated joy on the girl's face, Stefano suspected she had no knowledge of the first one. "Wow! That's—oh my god! I don't know what to say! That's incredible!"

"I know!" Alessandra's shoulders rose up playfully. "And do you know what the best part is?"

"What?"

"You can't take this one."

Stefano saw the joy quickly drain from the girl's face. She glanced down at their clasped hands. The white fingers told Stefano that Alessandra was squeezing down on them—painfully.

"S-sorry, what—?"

"Oh, I'm sure you are." Alessandra's voice had grown soft. Deadly. "Did you really think I'd let you get away, Cellie?"

The confusion, the _fear_ , in the girl's eyes made Stefano's heart hammer. If he'd been sitting in a theater, he'd be gripping the armrests like vises. So here it was—the big finale. The climax. He could hardly wait.

"Cellie?" the girl repeated. "I-I don't...!" Quickly, she managed to rip her hands away. She rose to her feet just as Alessandra did. Stefano didn't miss how one of Alessandra's hands had slipped under the cushion and reemerged with a long kitchen knife. "Celestina, please! What's going—?" The sight of the knife quickly cut her sentence short.

"You thought you could take it all from me, Cellie?" Alessandra demanded, her voice quickly rising to a scream. "Take my spotlight, take my little girl—take _me?"_ She advanced on the terrified girl, who quickly scrambled back to keep the distance.

"N-no! Please, stop! I don't understand!"

"It doesn't matter if you understand!" Alessandra shrieked. "What matters is that you never, _EVER_ take anything from me again!" The girl had been backed against a wall. Maybe she should have run, but fear kept her legs locked in place.

"Stop… stop! HELP ME!" Suddenly, it was as though she were calling out to someone. "JACKS—!"

The knife ran through, coldly and effortlessly. Watching the cold metal disappear behind flesh, Stefano couldn't help but feel as though he had been stabbed as well—but instead of pain, there was only a deep, unsettling ecstasy.

She fell to the ground and the knife clattered next to her. As she bled freely, she tried to pull herself away. All the while, the choked pleas of, "Stop… stop…" arose from her strained throat.

"Shhh!" Alessandra hissed bitterly. "Stop screaming!" She descended upon the wounded girl. Her hands, claw-like, came down and pressed tightly over the girl's lower face. "Shhh!"

She struggled. At one point, she nearly pushed Alessandra off. But it was all to no avail, and after a very, very long time she stopped moving and Alessandra pulled her hands away. The silence was deafening.

And then it was broken by the slow claps that came from his hands. "That was… magnificent," Stefano said. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you."

A low, dark chuckle emitted from Alessandra. She rose, still staring down at the body. And then she lifted her hands as if to let something drip down her arms. Pivoting them, she proclaimed in a voice that was almost a moan, "Oh, darling, I have never felt so _free!"_

"And how does it feel?" As Alessandra lowered her arms, Stefano saw the answer clear on her face.


	25. Evidence

The house at 208 North Shore Street had a long reputation of being haunted, though no solid evidence of supernatural activity had ever been caught aside from the words of trespassers that had been spooked by the sounds of rodents nesting in the attic. Fear of what lay inside the dilapidated house came from nothing more than restless imagination. One day, that fear became real.

The police arrived quickly after the 911 call was made. In a matter of minutes, the house at 208 North Shore Street was surrounded with yellow tape and police cars with flashing lights.

Hendriks was the first detective at the scene. She knew exactly what state the body in the house would be in even before getting there. She knew who the killer was and what they would be saying in the Krimson City Post because she and Ledford had been the detectives called to the scene.

They found her in one of the rooms. She had been posed so that she would be looking right at the door—as if she was waiting for them. And when Hendriks saw her face, she knew exactly whom the killer had wanted her to wait for.

Quickly, Hendriks turned to the nearest officer. "Where is Ledford?" she demanded frantically. "Is he en route?"

"Yes, Detective. He was called as soon as you were."

"Get to the car and radio him again. Tell him _not_ to come. Do you hear me? _Tell him to stay away!"_

The officer was startled, but he hurried away to obey her pressing order. But, for whatever reason, the message never reached Ledford. Whether by human error or technological malfunction, the detective was allowed to arrive at 208 North Shore Street. Panic crossed Hendriks's eyes when she saw him. At that point, she knew she couldn't stop him.

Deep down, Ledford already knew. When a text message remained unanswered for a few hours, then a few days, and calls always led to voicemail, he grew afraid and deep down he already knew.

"Is it her?"

Hendriks wouldn't answer him. She told him to stop. She told him not to go into the house. Begged him not to.

But Ledford ignored her and stormed into the house. He signed away his sanity as soon as he stepped into that room and saw her waiting for him.

 _The Breaking of Something Sacred_ was the Krimson City Killer's latest piece. She sat on the floor with her upper body leaned slightly forward. Wiring from her shoulders held her up, and her head was tilted back as though she were on the verge of screaming into the air. Her legs were hidden by the red dress that fanned out around her like a flower in bloom. The light accented the creases and highlights of the satin.

Rose petals attached to more wire draped down from the ceiling around her like garlands. More were scattered on the floor, and the red hue of the petals gave the feel that the roof—or the heavens—was bleeding.

But when Ledford stepped in, he didn't see the petals. He didn't see the satin at first—to him, it looked like pooled blood. He saw her face. He remembered the way it looked when he was a little boy, staring down at the crib after his mother had introduced him to his baby sister. He remembered the way it scrunched up in childish anger when they quarreled over toys and candy. He remembered the way it pressed up against him, wet with tears, at their parents' funeral. He remembered the way it used to smile.

The officer closest to him must have said something, but Ledford didn't catch a single word as he turned. His movement was unsteady and dazed as he stumbled out of the room and caught himself on a nearby wall just as his legs failed him. He slid down against it, feeling pain grow in his chest as his breaths grew more and more shallow. Someone stopped in front of him. Hendrik's face appeared as she crouched in front of him. Ledford saw her lips move but he couldn't hear a thing.

"Corinne," he gasped, his voice strained as each word was pushed through his gritted teeth. "It's her… They got her…"

He heard Hendriks's voice, muddled and distant. "Ledford—."

"My fault. It's my fault."

"No, it's not."

 _"Then whose is it?"_ Ledford suddenly shouted. Hendriks quickly moved back as the detective suddenly stumbled up onto his feet. "I was supposed to stop this sick _fuck!_ But I've let them get away again and again—do this to people again and again! And now—now out of everyone, it's… it's…!"

Plaster exploded as Ledford's fist punched through the wall. His knuckles were scraped and bleeding when he pulled them back out. He leaned his forehead against the wall, breathing heavily. He didn't move as Hendriks whispered quietly to an officer, "Radio back and tell them we need an ambulance."

She drove the two of them back to the department. The first half of the ride had them stuck in unbearable silence. Hendriks had thought about turning some music on, but couldn't bring herself to.

Then, suddenly, the silence was broken. "Hendriks," he suddenly said. "I have a suspect. I need you to make an arrest for me."

"A suspect?" Hendriks thought to a few years prior. "You don't mean…"

"Not him," Ledford said. "I have a name. A stage name."

* * *

There came the knocking again, but this time it was someone at the front door. Alessandra was quick to answer it just to make sure there really was someone standing there on the porch this time. She was surprised to see a woman dressed sharply in a gray blazer and slacks. Her dress shirt peeked from behind the open blazer. Alessandra also caught a glimpse of something black—the strap of a holster.

"Celestina Amonte?"

Alessandra gave a wordless nod, her hands still holding protectively onto the door. "Sorry, whom am I speaking to?"

"Corinne Hendriks, KCPD detective," the woman answered. She lifted the hem of the blazer to show the badge secured to her belt. "Ms. Amonte, I'd like to ask you a few questions and have you shed any possible light on a crime recently occurred."

Damn. It was so annoying when the KCPD wandered onto the right track. "Crime?" Alessandra repeated, letting a touch of fear enter her voice. "What happened?" She knew Stefano was somewhere behind her, listening closely.

"Do you mind if I step in before continuing?" the detective asked.

"Oh, no—come right in." Alessandra opened the door wider. Hendriks stepped through.

"This won't take long," the detective said.

"You're no inconvenience at all," Alessandra assured gently as she shut the door. "I'm just shocked… a little worried too. You were saying something about a crime?"

"That's right," Hendriks replied. "Might I ask if you have any relation to Carolyn Ledford?"

The detective had turned away from Alessandra as she asked the question, her eyes having fallen onto one of the busts. Alessandra's gaze snapped past the woman's shoulder to Stefano, who gave a small, subtle shake of his head. "Carolyn…" Alessandra repeated quizzically. "She's La Petit Maîtresse, isn't she?" As Hendriks turned back to her, Alessandra's eyes widened with concern. "Oh no… did something happen to her?"

There was a soft buzz coming from the detective's pocket. Hendriks glanced down. The phone surfaced for just a quick second before disappearing back away—just enough for Hendriks to confirm what the incoming message was.

"That's it," Alessandra heard Hendriks say. Suddenly, the detective stepped towards Alessandra, her gait growing authoritative. "Ms. Amonte, you're under arrest."

"What?" This time it was Stefano who spoke up, sounding bewildered and outraged. Oh, he was a wonderful little actor himself when he was under the spotlight. "My wife has done nothing! Don't you—!"

"Don't interfere," Hendriks ordered in a stony voice. "Given your past record with KCPD, I don't think you'll want to get in the way."

"Why me? What have I done?" Alessandra fretted. She felt the detective pull her hands behind her back. Metallic clicking precluded an icy cold grip onto her wrists.

"Everything will be explained to you once we reach the precinct, Ms. Amonte. Now let's step outside, please, and I'll read you your rights."

He may have seemed like a concerned husband, but Alessandra knew that as soon as the detective's back turned—as soon as the spotlight swiveled away from him—the farce dropped. In fact, Alessandra was sure he found pleasure at the sight of her in handcuffs, that cheeky devil. Before stepping out of the door with the detective, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Stefano watching them with an amused look on his face. She gave him a quick wink before turning back.

When she reached her detainment room within the police department, Alessandra was allowed a phone call to her lawyer. As soon as Newell picked up, she let panic and distress fill her voice as she pleaded for him to come help her. And he came running—like a dog to the whistle. As soon as he arrived, Hendriks met with the both of them in that detainment room to explain the nature of the arrest.

Ah, Carolyn Ledford. Stefano had been quite pleased with this latest victim. He saw it as a way to really get under that one detective's skin—the man that had tried so hard to find Stefano guilty for his crimes.

Come to think of it, where was that dear detective now? The newspapers had named him as leading the hunt for the Krimson City Killer. Had Stefano's latest work of art broken him? If he'd been knocked off the investigation and replaced by this Hendriks, then the KCPD had no chance.

All of this musing was hidden well in Alessandra's mind. On the exterior, the woman's face was horrified as she listened to the detective. "That's awful! She was so young!" Alessandra gasped, delicately placing a hand over her chest. She glanced at Newell, noticing smugly that he gazed back with a trustful look. "But I promise you, Detective, I had _nothing_ to do with her death!"

"So you deny any affiliation?"

"Do I look like a murderer to you?" Alessandra looked truly upset, making sure Newell was well aware. "I want to go home! I want to be with my husband!"

"Detective," Newell piped up, "my client clearly needs a break before we continue. Might I ask for five minutes—?"

"Ten," Alessandra quickly cut in.

"—Ten," Newell repeated. "Ten minutes for Celestina to collect herself and for us to speak in private."

"Of course," Hendriks replied. She left the room, leaving the two of them alone.

"Doug," Alessandra said, "what's happening? Why are they accusing me again?"

"At this point I can't say anything with complete certainty," Newell answered. "It's likely they have some evidence that's pointing towards you."

"Evidence?" Alessandra thought back to Stefano's work. He had been meticulous in ensuring that his final piece would hold no trace of either of them. The extreme effort had impressed Alessandra, but then again there was a reason the Krimson City Killer was still running free even with the brazen display of his victims. "What evidence? Why is someone trying to incriminate me?"

"Hold on, Celestina," Newell reassured. "We're not sure that's the case. It's still too early to say, but I promise you that as soon as I get back to my office I'm sending as many emails and making as many calls as it takes to find out what's going on."

"Doug, you're a hero. When will they let me make a phone call? I need to hear Stefano's voice."

"I'm not sure."

"Then will you stop by our house? Tell him I'm okay?" Alessandra looked wistful.

"Of course."

* * *

Ledford kept his arms crossed while Hendriks filled him in. Part of him—the little bit left that could still think straight—was relieved at the news of the successful arrest. He knew he wouldn't have gotten that arrest warrant approved without Hendriks' backing. And he knew she was taking the brunt of the media outcry that would ensue by placing the cuffs on Celestina herself. It was her renown that legitimized Ledford's efforts. He was well aware that Vankirk—maybe even the chief himself—would have considered this a repeat of what happened five years ago. No doubt the same result would have happened. They'd call this a personal attack on the photographer and his wife, and consider Ledford mentally unfit to continue the investigation given the victim's identity. Maybe they were right—on the latter, anyway.

Ledford knew he was on the right track, and he'd see this through to its rightful end. A little piece of evidence that, for the longest time had been sitting in his pocket, was his one trump card. It wouldn't be long before Newell would demand to see the evidence and dig for ways to discredit it. Go ahead and try, attorney.

Immediately, Ledford was pulled from his thoughts when he heard Hendriks say his name again. The detective blinked a few times as he looked up. "Couldn't have done this without you, Corinne. Thanks."

Hendriks didn't look the least bit cheered by the gratitude. "Jackson," she said slowly. "Are you sure you can handle this? I think it'd be best if—."

"Corinne, stop." His voice grew firm. "I need to see this through. I need justice."

"I understand," Hendriks replied. "Just don't forget to look after yourself. If you ever need a break—step away, clear your head, or just talk to someone—I got you. You know that."

"Yeah," Ledford replied tiredly. "I know."

The next day, Ledford requested to interview the suspect himself. He wasn't the least bit surprised to see the wariness on everyone's faces. They instated a security guard to stand in the interrogation room. But Ledford was planning on taking it easy with La Contessa. There was no need for intimidation when he still had the upper hand.

Today was the last day to collect all he could from the suspect herself—Celestina had already been granted to be release on her own recognizance. In lieu of bail, she would be released from police custody in exchange for her written confirmation that she would appear at any court summons demanded of her. It was Celestina's seemingly innocent persona and history that had made the magistrate so willing to give her an easy way out.

That's how she looked now—entirely innocent—as Ledford stepped in. He remembered five years ago when he had confronted Stefano in an interrogation room like this. He remembered that one eye and its smug, almost predatory, stare.

Celestina, by contrast, sat in her chair with her shoulders lightly bunched and a worried look on her face. She had the air of a trapped rabbit, making Ledford almost look like a wolf closing in.

"Ms. Amonte," Ledford greeted, his voice as cordial as it was stiff. He crossed his arms and, not wanting to tower over the woman, walked to the shorter end of the table and perched himself on the edge. "So far you've denied any affiliation with the murder of Carolyn Ledford—is this correct?"

"Yes," Celestina answered. "I had nothing to do with it—I wouldn't even dream of hurting that poor girl."

"Don't embellish your answer. A simple yes or no will suffice," Ledford replied bluntly. He saw Celestina lower her eyes and nearly felt guilty for a second. Quickly, he squared his shoulders and continued. "Tell me about yourself. What was your childhood like?"

"My…?" Celestina repeated. She was reacting just as Ledford expected her to. The woman was closing up, just like she had when Curtis asked her the same thing in his recording.

"Yes," Ledford replied. "Just to let us assess your character. It's an important way for us to evaluate our suspects."

"I see," Celestina said slowly.

"Remember," Newell cut in to warn her, "that you can stop answering at any point if you start to get uncomfortable. Don't say more than you need to."

"It's okay, Doug," Celestina reassured. She lifted her eyes, and Ledford could have sworn it was a different person looking up at him… something entirely different. "I've got nothing to hide.

"Papa was the heir to his family's oil company, you see. Black gold—isn't that what it's called? He left the City of Love to find it and met Mamma in Milan. He had more money than he knew what to do with by the time I was born, and he was never shy about using it all on us."

"Us?" Ledford interrupted.

Celestina looked taken aback at the interlude. "Well…" Quickly, she answered, "Yes. Mamma and I. We were his angels, you know. The light of his life. And my parents…" She sighed. "They showered me with affection. They nurtured my love for music. I wouldn't be the woman I am now if it weren't for them."

"Touching," Ledford remarked in a voice that was devoid of sentiment. "And what about any other family?"

"Well there was Papa's side of the family—a bit snooty, to be perfectly honest. We didn't visit them very often. They were ever so rude to Mamma. Her French was very poor, and so they saw no problem in gossiping about her while she was in the same room. There was also a cousin of mine from that side—she was especially horrid. Always so rude to my—to me. Oh, no… I shouldn't say that. She got into a tragic car accident a year before I graduated from the Royal Academy, you know. I remember feeling awful for all the hatred I felt towards her. Death has a way of making mistakes sting terribly, doesn't it?"

Ledford's hackles prickled at her last sentence. Though Celestina had said it with clear repentance in her voice, he couldn't help but feel as though there was a hidden taunt in there. Perhaps she and Stefano weren't so different after all.

 _Still no Alessandra_ , Ledford noticed. It seemed she was still adamant on keeping this sister of hers under the rug. But if he brought that name up now, Celestina would shut down and refuse to entertain his questions. And, he thought with dry, bitter humor, he'd run the risk of being found facedown in an alleyway in a pool of his own blood.

"Thank you for answering," he told her, to which Celestina responded, "Of course, Detective."

Then, Ledford continued. "Now, I've been noticing a recent trend regarding the individual known as the Krimson City Killer, Ms. Amonte. Would you mind corroborating this observation for me?"

"I'll try, Detective, but I doubt I know more about that than you do."

"You don't need access to confidential information to see this trend, Ms. Amonte. Have you been following the news of this killer?"

"I have, especially now since they've murdered some of my dearest friends."

"That's just the thing," Ledford said. "Early victims, given that this is the same individual, were all small names. Unknown until their deaths were published in the papers. And only models, too. Namely, women who appeared in front of the camera." He watched for any reaction from Celestina and found none. "And then… around 2007, I'd say… the black sheep started appearing. Fast forward to now, and the names towards the end of this list have gotten bigger. More acclaimed. Not only that—they were singers, not just models. Musicians. Your friends, as you said."

Celestina gave a small nod. "Whoever this killer is, they clearly have an inclination towards glamorous women," she said. "And though never straying from this preference, their taste has shifted. This is Krimson City, after all. Plenty of musicians around."

"And what about you?" Ledford asked. "You're a musician yourself. Are you not worried?"

"I never said I wasn't."

"I remember," Ledford went on, "reading an interview between you and the Krimson City Post a few years ago. During the height of the murders you told the journalists that you and your husband were on the verge of leaving the city. I don't blame Mr. Valentini—it's a rational reaction for someone in his place. After all, you fit the dossier of one of the Krimson City Killer's typical victims to a T. And yet you're still here. Since then, more women have died—more musicians. And yet _you're still here_."

"I'm careful," Celestina defended. "I never go anywhere without my husband or someone else knowing. When it starts getting dark I never walk the streets alone."

"Let me guess—you walk with your husband?"

"Most of the time, yes. He's very protective of me, as he should be." Before Ledford could build off of his question, Celestina briskly continued, "Don't think me obtuse just because I was a woman of the stage, Detective. I know your history with Stefano, and I'm quite aware that this is an attempt to pull him in. This investigation is about _me_. You arrested _me._ And I'll continue to answer questions about _me_. If you stray, I'm afraid I'll have to cut things short." Suddenly, a smile that, in any other situation, might have been considered warm and beautiful appeared on her face. "I'm sorry, Detective. I didn't mean to be rude."

Ignoring her honeyed apology, Ledford remained silent as he examined Celestina. After a moment, he spoke up quietly. "He had a similar reaction when I brought you up."

"Are you surprised? He cares deeply about me, and I him. Don't hate Stefano just because you don't have the love of a woman like he does."

"Celestina," Newell interjected quietly, shooting her a gentle warning look.

"I'm sorry, Doug. That was too far, wasn't it?"

Ledford still hadn't taken his steely glare from Celestina. He watched the emotions play across her face seamlessly like a shape shifter. "Thank you, Ms. Amonte," he suddenly said. "Your answers have proven invaluable in helping us assess who you are." He saw Celestina look back at him, and the innocence in her eyes was entirely gone.

"Do you mind if I get one last word in before we conclude?" she asked.

Ledford didn't expect this. "Go on."

"I see it in your eyes—you think me a monster. Well, let me tell you this: monsters aren't born, Detective. They're made."

"By Dr. Frankenstein?" Ledford replied dryly.

"By the people who were supposed to love them." Celestina leaned forward. "So next time you accuse someone of being a monster, think very carefully of what exactly that means." Newell was watching Celestina with a shocked expression. Celestina seemed to notice, because she leaned back with a shaky sigh. "Doug," she said, her voice growing soft and pitiable again, "when can I go home?"

"You'll be released by seven-thirty in the morning tomorrow."

"Oh, my Stefano," Celestina fretted. "I can't stand the thought of him alone."

Ledford slipped out of the interrogation room. To his relief, he saw that it was Hendriks instead of Vankirk waiting for him. "That was… somewhat enlightening," Hendriks remarked.

"Looks like Krimson City's sweetheart has another side to her. Hopefully we'll be able to pull that side into the light during the preliminary hearing."

"I'm going to be honest—we all thought you were going to be a bit more out of control in there."

Ledford gave a heavy sigh. "I'm making progress, and that's what's got me hanging in there," he said. "Plus, I know you've got my back." They headed through the precinct, nearing the homicide department. As they drew closer to Ledford's office, the detective slowed. "I'm calling Chen first thing tomorrow morning. We _need_ to have this hearing secured."


	26. All Rise

"Celestina Amonte, your indictment reads as follows: Count One, First Degree Murder. One, on or about and between November 6, 2013 and November 13, 2013, both dates being approximate and inclusive, within the jurisdiction of the United States, the State of California, and the City of Krimson City, the defendant Celestina Amonte did knowingly and intentionally murder the victim Carolyn Ledford.

"Count Two, Second Degree Murder. Two, on or about and between November 6, 2013 and November 13, 2013, within the aforementioned jurisdictions, the defendant Celestina Amonte did—without malice aforethought—intentionally murder the victim Carolyn Ledford.

"Count Three, Voluntary Manslaughter. Three, on or about and between November 6, 2013 and November 13, 2013, within the aforementioned jurisdictions, the defendant Celestina Amonte did intentionally murder the victim Carolyn Ledford as a crime of passion—without malice aforethought and spurred by momentary emotional or mental distress.

"Mr. Newell, have you discussed the charges set forth in Counts One, Two, and Three with your client?"

"I have, Your Honor."

"And does your client understand that, should any of these charges be proven, any of the lesser offenses as previously listed will automatically be proven in tandem?"

"Yes."

"Does your client wish to enter a plea at this time to the aforementioned charges?"

"Yes, Your Honor. My client pleads not guilty to each count."

"Very well. A plea of not guilty is entered to all three counts of the indictment."

* * *

A loud, irate huff escaped her lips as soon as the door shut behind her. She threw her leather bag onto one of the hooks by the door and marched deeper into the house. There, she found Stefano reclined in his armchair. A few feet in front of him was a large print already tucked into its thick matte.

"Brown matte," she heard Stefano mutter under his breath, his voice muffled by the fingers pressed over his lips. "Why on _earth_ would anyone ask for a brown matte?"

"How is the gift for the mayor coming along?" Alessandra asked, stopping by the armchair to observe the portrait. It was that of a woman—hmm, the mayor certainly married below his level, didn't he? Perhaps the woman had come with a nice dowry.

"Already finished. Not bad, even with that _hideous_ matte." With a sigh, Stefano continued, "Last time I spoke with the mayor, though, I asked for a bit more time. I haven't been myself, I told him, with fretting over my poor wife. He was very understanding—a rare trait among clientele. He confessed to me he was absolutely baffled by the KCPD's actions, you know. How could they do that to Krimson City's sweetheart? He even assured me that I would have nothing to worry about. If she didn't do it, then they'll eventually find that out." He laughed. "I supposed I _should_ be worried then?" There was no response. "Amore?"

"Three counts," Alessandra muttered bitterly. "That detective pinned three counts on me—he really doesn't want to let me go."

"Isn't that the usual reception you get from men?" Stefano replied nonchalantly, pulling his sleeve back to glance at his watch.

"There's only one man's response I care about," Alessandra said, letting her voice grow playful. She crouched down by the armchair, resting her arms atop the armrest. "You'll protect me from the bad detective, won't you?"

"Of course." Stefano placed a hand on the top of her head, letting it slide down and come around the back of her neck. "What artist would I be without my inspiration? I'm curious, though—did anyone bring up your hair?"

"No," Alessandra scoffed lightly. "This was a court proceeding, not a ladies' night out."

"And speaking of which, when is the hearing?"

"Next week," Alessandra answered, standing and pulling herself from Stefano's grip. "Doug told the judge he needed time to prepare. He wants to take whatever evidence the detective has on me and turn it against him."

"This lawyer—he trusts you? Believes your every word?"

"Of course," Alessandra said. "We're friends."

"Hmm," Stefano mused, "quite the puppeteer, aren't you?"

"The world is simply my stage," Alessandra responded. "And I've gotten quite good at setting it how I like." She walked around the armchair.

As she headed towards the kitchen to fix herself a mug of something hot, she heard Stefano speak up behind her. "How is… How are you feeling?" There was something clumsy about how the question was asked. Of course. True empathy was something she suspected Stefano to be a complete stranger to. She only wondered what was causing him to breach the boundary now.

"I'm fine," Alessandra answered, her hand automatically drifting up to settle over her stomach. She stopped and looked back at Stefano. "Nobody knows, of course. And you know what, darling? If push comes to shove, I have a way to make the detective look truly heinous. Make _him_ the monster."

Stefano broke away from her eyes to sit back, settling his gaze onto the portrait. "Once the dust settles over this…" He gave a brisk flick of his hand, "… this ordeal, I think we should leave Krimson City. I'm serious this time."

"And won't people think that we're running from something?" Alessandra pointed out.

"Or they'll see a man who is simply tired of having him and his dear wife be harassed by the KCPD time and time again."

"What about when the Krimson City Killer murders stop?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can arrange for some pieces to have delayed unveilings," Stefano said. "Throw off the timing—just by a bit. People are ever so dimwitted, amore. I'm sure you've noticed that in abundance as well." Resting his elbows on either armrest, he laced his fingers together in front of him. "I just feel like I'm starting to fly too close to the sun."

Alessandra had long forgotten why she was heading towards the kitchen, her attention wholly focused on the man in the armchair. She turned fully to face him. "Darling?"

"When I was a younger man, if someone told me I'd be here—wearing gold on my hand and talking to an expecting wife, I'd think they were telling me some sort of joke in ill taste. If they told me that I'd desire her company over the pulling apart of her flesh, I'd call them a fool. But now…" Stefano suddenly parted his hands. "Brown matte. I put a _brown matte_ over that thing. Why did I do that?" He paused for a moment, and then in a soft voice said, "I've been thinking about Giacomo a lot lately."

Then, abruptly as though shaken from a dream—or even a nightmare—Stefano stood. He stepped away from the armchair. As he passed by Alessandra, he paused next to her and gave her nose a playful tap. "Why are you standing here like some kind of stranger?" he asked her in a teasing voice. He then walked past her, adding, "I wonder how my hometown is going to react to my pieces."

* * *

Krimson City's sweetheart—this was going to be no ordinary case, the prosecutor knew. Nor easy. Unfortunately, preliminary hearings were open to the public and she expected a full courtroom. She only hoped the bailiffs were ready to pull rowdy and outspoken fans out of the room.

To be completely honest, Chen was surprised Ledford managed to push the proceedings on Amonte this far. Even she had felt the general skepticism that was widespread across the police department and prosecutor office. No one but Ledford seemed to believe that La Contessa was capable of what she was being accused of doing. Chen had to admit the evidence they had on hand was a bit shaky, but it was all they had. That, and the detective's steadfast determination, was the only things keeping the cogs turning.

Chen was already at her bench when the defendant and her counsel arrived. She spent the next 15 minutes before the hearing to skim through her documents one last time and rehearse the facts in her head. Ledford was going to appear as the prosecution's witness. Then the few pieces of evidence they had would be presented, and Chen was fully aware that Newell likely had counterarguments prepared for each and every one of them.

When court came into session, Chen rose to her feet. The hearing began with the judge addressing the defense, asking if the defendant would like the charges reread to her. Newell responded by saying that wouldn't be necessary.

Finally, after more exchange between the court and the defense, the judge finally turned to Chen and asked that the hearing begin. "Prosecutor," the judge addressed. "Your objective today is to prove probable cause that the defense, Celestina Amonte, is linked to the murder of Carolyn Ledford. Otherwise this case will not proceed to trial. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Very well. Do you anticipate making any sort of opening statement?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Call your first witness."

"I'd like to call Detective Jackson Ledford to the stand," Chen introduced. She couldn't help but watch warily as the detective stepped up and took his place at the booth. His face was hardened as it always was in a professional setting, but the jovial glint that used to be ever present in his eyes was extinguished.

Once Ledford was sworn in, Chen began her questioning. She asked Ledford to introduce himself and spell out his name for the court reporter, which he did.

"How are you employed, Detective Ledford?"

"I'm an investigator with the Krimson City Police Department."

"How long have you been with the KCPD?"

"11 years."

"And how long have you been a detective?"

"This January will make it seven years."

"And what were you serving as before you became a detective?"

"A patrol officer."

"Detective Ledford, so that we may lay this matter transparently to the court, please explain the nature of your relationship between yourself and the victim."

At the question, the detective's jaw clenched, though he was quick to answer. "The victim, Carolyn Ledford, was my sister." His words remained firm, but Chen caught a slight stammer on his last word.

"Thank you, Detective. Now, were you the first officer at the scene after the body of the victim was discovered?"

"No, Detective Hendriks was the first. I arrived shortly thereafter."

"Were you able to assess the body before it was taken to the ambulance?"

"Yes."

"And can you describe the nature of the body as it was discovered?" It pained Chen to even ask, but she knew laying the facts out for the court was necessary. As Ledford had insisted, they _needed_ to establish probable cause today.

"The body was posed," Ledford began. Chen was amazed at how steady he kept his composure. Then again, this was Jackson—the man whose job brought him face-to-face with the darkest parts of humanity time and time again. But even this… this couldn't be compared. "Additionally, it was decorated. Upon discovery, it was wearing a dress that more than likely did not belong to the victim."

"Was it decapitated like many of the other previously found posed bodies?"

"No."

"Does the KCPD suspect the same killer, aliased the Krimson City Killer by media, to be responsible?"

There was an uncharacteristic pause that followed Chen's latest question. Ledford's eyes flitted to the defendant. "Y—most likely."

"Then leave _her_ alone!" a shout suddenly pierced the proceeding. "What the fuck are you _doing?"_ Heads snapped back to see a middle-aged woman with short hair and highlights who had risen to her feet.

The judge frowned. "Quiet in the court," he stated sternly.

Another, having been spurred by the first woman, screeched, "Innocent until proven guilty, and you can't even prove _shit!"_

"Quiet in the court!" one of the bailiffs boomed. Chen wanted to sink down under her bench. On the other side of the aisle, Celestina gave her attorney a worried look. Newell only shook his head and touched a finger to his lips.

"Throw _his_ ass in jail! He's the only guilty one here!"

"Bailiffs, escort them out! They are not to be allowed back in!" the judge snapped. As the bailiffs carried out his order, the judge continued, "Might I remind the court that a preliminary hearing is in session, and any interruption from public attendees will _not_ be tolerated!"

Chen looked back once more to catch a glimpse of the bailiffs herding the women out. As she did, another face in the backbenches caught her eye. She recognized him. Several years prior, Ledford had pulled him in as a suspect for a previous murder, but they hadn't even been able to take him to court. He was there now, the only face not turned to watch the bailiffs. He was staring straight ahead at the prosecutor. There was something in his gaze that caused a deep shiver of fear in her.

And then she realized he wasn't looking at her. He was staring past her—at the detective on the witness stand. Chen turned back and saw that Ledford was returning the stare. There was something unsettling in the detective's glare.

Chen heard the large courtroom doors close. Immediately, the judge spoke up, "Court is back in session. Prosecutor, resume your questioning."

Questio—? Oh. Right.

Ledford broke his eyes away from Stefano's, looking back at the prosecutor expectantly. "Detective," Chen began, her mind racing to recall what had been discussed before the outbursts. "As previously established… The KCPD suspects the victim to have been killed by a suspected serial killer known to be within the Krimson City area?"

"It certainly seems that way, yes," Ledford answered. He implored Chen through his gaze to veer the questioning towards the direction they needed it to go.

"Has the KCPD ever brought up prior suspicions about the defendant, Ms. Amonte, being or in affiliation with the Krimson City Killer?"

"Yes."

"Please elaborate."

"Six years ago the KCPD brought in her husband, Stefano Valentini, for questioning as a suspect for the murder of Janine Sawyer. Two years ago, Ms. Amonte was taken for questioning for the Irma Kotz murder."

"And was probable cause formally established in either of these instances?"

The detective's eyes darkened. "No."

"Detective Ledford, can you please explain to the court why you suspect Ms. Amonte now?"

"New evidence has arisen in the face of this new murder, Prosecutor. They all link to the defendant."

"Your Honor," Chen said, "the prosecution has a prepared exhibit list it wishes to present to the court. I would like to conclude my questioning with the detective and move on to the presentation of the exhibits."

"Before we do—does the defense wish to cross-examine the witness?"

"Not at this time, Your Honor."

"The prosecution will present its exhibit list."

"Of course, Your Honor." Chen signaled to an officer sitting behind a laptop nearby. The lights in the courtroom dimmed slightly and a projection screen lowered from the ceiling. "Here we have Exhibit A." An image appeared on the projection screen—that of a red dress laid flat on a table. An evidence tag was attached to one of the shoulder straps. "This is the dress that the victim was found in. Exhibit A is a red satin dress of the designer brand, C. Denevor. We had appraisers come in and estimate that the retail price of this dress would have been around $1,995. You see, Your Honor, there was no comparable dress on the market that we could use because this one was an exclusive—a personal, one-of-a-kind made by designer Clarissa Denevor herself as a gift for Ms. Amonte."

"The defense would like to object," Newell quickly cut in. Chen couldn't help but shoot him a look. "There is a rational explanation for this that disconnects my client's involvement with how the dress ended up on the victim."

"The defense may continue," the judge allowed.

"Ms. Amonte has informed me that some time in October, she had that dress brought to the dry cleaners. Upon picking it up, she was informed that the dress had been misplaced. She never had it in her possession since."

"And did she make any attempt to recover the dress?"

"Yes, but they were all unsuccessful. I suspect that it was around that time when the true killer took possession of the dress."

Chen already knew of this counterargument when Newell had first learned of the victim's dress. Officers had gone to the dry cleaners. The staff there confirmed that Ms. Amonte had checked in a red satin dress that, to their bafflement, became the first piece of clothing that had ever gone missing. When asked for a receipt for proof, the staff replied that Ms. Amonte had refused to pay when she learned that her dress had gone missing. All they could show was the entry they had made in the system's log, which was deemed adequate.

"If, for a moment, we _were_ to say that Ms. Amonte did indeed murder the victim," Newell continued, "it would be completely irrational and—might I add—foolish for her to put her victim in a dress that very quickly could be proven she was the sole possessor of."

To Chen's disappoint, but not at all to her surprise, Newell's argument won over the court. "Ms. Chen, Exhibit A has failed to prove probable cause. Please move on to your next exhibit."

"Yes, Your Honor. Might I direct the court's attention to Exhibit B?" The officer behind the laptop rose and procured the next piece of evidence—a smartphone. "Detective, was the victim's phone ever recovered?"

Ledford, still at the witness stand, answered, "No, Prosecutor. And it is currently powered off, so it cannot be GPS tracked."

"Then whose phone is this?"

"Mine."

"The detective has informed investigators—and this has been confirmed by records within his phone—that he received a text message sent from the victim's phone on November 6, timestamp approximately 5:30 PM. The message reads as follows: _La Contessa's house is so big! Will she think I'm trashy if I ask her for a selfie while I'm here?_ End quote."

Hidden from view in the defendant's seat, the woman's hand clenched in her lap.

"My client claims she was never visited by the victim on or around November 6, Your Honor," Newell said. "Detective, where did officers find the victim's car?"

"In the parking garage of her apartment complex," Ledford answered flatly.

"It's possible the victim took a taxi," Chen shot back. "Krimson City Taxi has records of a cab stopping at the defendant's address on November 6, with the fare paid by Ms. Amonte's card."

"Ms. Amonte has told me that cab was for _herself_. She had gone out for drinks with friends that day."

"November 6 is within the coroner's range of estimated time of death," the judge said, this time not looking as convinced by Newell's argument. "And despite the context of the victim's message, Ms. Amonte denies seeing her around her home. Why would she send a message like that, then? I think this may warrant further investigation, Mr. Newell. Prosecutor, do you have any other evidence to show to the court?"

"I do, Your Honor," Chen replied. Her eyes met Ledford's. "Forensics found Exhibit C. As Detective Ledford has been working closely with them, I'll have him present it to the court."

"Exhibit C," Ledford picked up immediately, "was found on the victim herself." Unbeknownst to anyone else within the courtroom, Stefano suddenly sat forward. The grip he had on one knee was tight. The projection screen showed a picture of a thin, brown strand against a white surface. An evidence tag labeled 'C' was laid next to it. "It was a hair, Your Honor. Luckily, the root follicle was intact and forensics was able to extract enough DNA to run identifying tests." The detective's cold eyes fell on the defense's bench as he said, "A match was found and it was determined with absolute certainty that the hair belonged to Ms. Amonte."

Celestina had paled. It was time to drive the final nail in. "Detective," Chen addressed. "Where did forensics find this hair?"

Each word was spoken with puncturing intensity. "Inside the knife wound."

For a moment, the room was silent. Eyes of those once adoring fans looked to Celestina in shock. Then came the multitude of hushed whispers as people were no longer able to keep their racing thoughts to themselves. The judge quickly silenced the courtroom. Celestina looked to Newell with pleading eyes while the attorney simply looked helpless. He had no counterargument for this one. When she found no reassurance from him, she looked back over her shoulder. There was one among the sea of faces that remained calm as he returned her gaze.

* * *

The sigh seemed to echo in the large, spacious room. Funny, Stefano mused as he gazed out across the emptiness. This house seemed to have tripled in size ever since Alessandra moved in. But he could only ever feel the extra space in her absence.

The judge at the preliminary hearing had established that there was indeed probable cause. At the session's end, Alessandra had burst into tears and a bailiff had pulled Stefano away when he'd gone to hug her. Of course—the media was there, after all.

Speaking of them—Stefano remembered how they hungrily followed him out the courtroom, pleading for a minute of his attention. He had ignored them at first. Then he had lied to them, telling them he had no desire to respond to any questions. And then he'd stopped to let the cameras and the microphones rush in.

They asked him question after question—one after the other and together all at once. Never could one end without another quickly being asked on its tail. They were all too excited, and Stefano made sure they would do what he wanted them to do.

They asked him if he thought his wife had truly committed the murder, to which he fervently denied. They asked him what his take was on the arrest and Stefano admitted he had never felt more hounded in his life. He wondered if maybe the KCPD's true motivation for targeting the two of them had something to do with their race or their socioeconomic status. He knew the press would gobble his answer up—they loved controversy, and so he painted it vibrantly into his words.

They had asked him what he thought of the judge's latest decree. With probable cause established, Alessandra's recognizance had been revoked and she was to be detained until her trial. To this, Stefano responded that he felt utterly hopeless.

That had been the biggest lie told that day.

There was work to be done. A little trim here, a little snip there. Gently whittle away certain parts until the whole thing was teetering. Then, a simple push. The rest would follow.

* * *

"Detective, um…"

This couldn't be good. Hendriks looked up from her desk. The officer stood there, hesitating for a moment, before continuing. "I think… you might want to hear this."

"What is it?" Hendriks asked, rising from her chair. She came around the desk and followed the officer out into the hall.

"Earlier today the suspect made a call to her husband," the officer explained as they headed towards one of the surveillance rooms.

"Did Ms. Amonte reveal anything in the call?" Hendriks asked.

"Yes—well, not pertaining to the case, exactly. Have a listen." With that cryptic answer, the officer let Hendriks sit at the table where the phone call had been monitored and recorded. She picked up the headphones from off the table, placed it over her ears, and hit play on the device.

Celestina had been allowed to telephone home after giving full acknowledgement and consent to the monitoring of the call. The phone rang a few times, and then Hendriks heard Stefano pick up.

"Amore?" he said. "Amore, is that you?"

Before she could muster out an answer, Celestina let out a quiet sob at the sound of his voice. She quickly calmed herself down and said, "Yes, darling, I—." Her words cut off with another shaking sob.

Stefano gently comforted her with soft shushes over the line. "Amore, listen—listen to me," he told her gently. "Don't cry, amore mio. Are you alright?"

"Y-yes," Celestina replied, regaining some of her composure. "I'm… I'm fine."

"Stay strong for me. I know you can do it."

"What about you?"

"You don't need to worry about me, amore. Focus on yourself. Focus on our…" Stefano quickly paused. Then he continued, "Does anyone know? Will they let you see a doctor?"

"I haven't told anyone yet," Celestina confessed. "Not even Doug. I just don't know if this is the time to bring it up."

"You need to," Stefano insisted. "Please… just in case. I don't want anything to happen to our child."

A hand pressed down tighter against the headphones as Hendriks's eyes widened. So this was what the officer had heard. The suspect they had in custody was pregnant. Unable to listen to the rest of the phone call, Hendriks pulled the headphones off. Her eyes remained glued to the desktop as her mind raced.

She had always backed Ledford up on his effort, even when there was a part of her that doubted. Even when his pushing and pushing had brought Celestina Amonte to tears countless times. Even when things just didn't seem right as she cried.

Hendriks had known Ledford since he'd started on the force—that spunky, young officer. His sense of righteousness and his spirit had always provided a breath of fresh air.

But now… who was this detective? The one ruthlessly pursuing a woman—a pregnant woman—like a wolf on a rabbit. Hendriks had thought that the death of his sister would have been the driving force for Ledford to find the truth once and for all. How wrong she had been.

He wasn't looking for the truth. He was looking for retribution—not for his sister's death, but for something much deeper and darker. Some sort of deluded justice, Hendriks suspected, that he feverishly chased.

She thought of the promise she had given to Ledford. But now, like everything else, it just didn't seem right.


	27. Rest That Follows

It was late at night when a phone buzzed. Puzzled, she walked over to it, wondering who could be messaging her at this hour. Perhaps it was Ledford—maybe he had made another discovery that needed her attention.

But before she could reach her phone, it buzzed again. She picked up the flat device, read the first few lines, and felt her heart quicken. The phone was unlocked so she could reread the messages and confirm that her eyes weren't playing horrific tricks on her.

'Hello Prosecutor,' greeted the first message. The second one read, 'I'm not happy with what you've done.'

The number was unknown. The first three digits weren't even the Krimson City area code—she wasn't quite sure where it came from. She remembered how, a while back, Ledford's phone had been doxxed by furious La Contessa fans and wondered if the same had happened to her as a result of the preliminary hearing. Well, the fallout was hardly unexpected. But then the messages continued.

'You should know that, as one who takes great pride in their work, I like having credit given where it's due.'

Her blood ran cold, and she was starting to get a very, very bad feeling she knew who was sending her these messages.

'You're at the front of the false accusers, you know. I'm aware that you have doubts that she has the capacity, the artistry, to craft such pieces. And you'd be right. So, may I ask, what are you doing then?'

Quickly, she took a screenshot of the message thread, including the bubble that showed that this unknown contact was still typing. She switched over to the thread she shared with Ledford and was on the verge of sending him the screenshot when a banner appeared at the top of the screen—a new message from the unknown sender.

'Stop what you're doing,' it commanded. 'Unless you want me to give 1202 Parkway Drive #521 a little visit.'

Her finger froze over the send button. It lowered, and then quickly withdrew from the screen. She returned to the conversation with the unknown sender.

'Do I have your attention now?'

Her heartbeat grew faster—a flurry of terrified palpitations. The Krimson City Killer had already proven they knew whom to target. Ledford's sister had already fallen victim. But this killer couldn't—just _couldn't_ —get near her.

'I'll give you a chance. Just one. Otherwise I'll be working on my next piece and there's nothing you can do to stop me.'

Madison Chen was currently attending the University of Southern California. She was in her sophomore year and lived close to campus at 1202 Parkway Drive, apartment 521.

'You can notify the police. You can tell them to track this number. If you do, I hope you feel terribly guilty when she goes missing. And I'll be sure she carries with her the knowledge of what you did to the afterlife.'

It was then she sent the only response to the unknown contact. 'What do you want?'

'I want you to drop the case. Stop giving La Contessa the credit she doesn't deserve. Nor that photographer husband of hers. Did you really think those two spoiled fools could possibly do what I do? I'm offended you even entertained the possibility.'

She paused, frantically deliberating. She considered calling Madison to warn her, but didn't want to scare her daughter. Furthermore, she didn't know if the Krimson City Killer would find out—and maybe just even a warning would make them act on their threat. She felt utterly terrified.

But the Krimson City Killer had offered a way out. Once again, she thought about Ledford's sister and knew what she had to do.

* * *

Gripping the thick glass tumbler in his hand, he used a finger to push the orange peel down through the floating ice and deeper into the dark amber drink. Still with his eyes lowered, he took a sip of the Negroni and let it burn a bitter, smoky trail down his throat.

They were settled in the large, extravagant living room of the Denevor manor. His company sat across the coffee table from him on a matching plush chair. She had a similar drink in her hands. Her eyes had scrunched and her lips were pursed, having just taken a small sip.

"Such an awful taste!" Clarissa commented cheerily despite the expression on her face.

"It's an acquired one," Stefano replied. He swirled his glass, letting the ice gently clack inside.

"I suppose you're right." Clarissa let out an airy laugh, sitting back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. "I have a friend who loves her whiskey shots. Won't start a night out without one. Me myself—I'll admit I'm rather feminine with my drinks. Just like Cellie, you know. We're the ladies at the bar ordering Cosmos and Cucumber Fizzes." The look on her face suddenly dropped. "Speaking of which… how is she doing?"

"Not good, I'm afraid," Stefano sighed. "Everything that's happened so far—it's surreal. I'm just hoping this is all a nightmare I'll soon awake from."

"You poor thing," Clarissa said. "I can't imagine what you must be going through. Why, you must hardly get a wink of sleep these nights."

"It's been tough, I won't lie," Stefano admitted. He hovered the tumbler closer to his lips and continued, "I've been with her for so long that I find this glimpse of life absent of her unbearable." Suddenly, he was alarmed that perhaps a crack of truth had appeared in his façade and quickly hid behind another drink of his Negroni. With the burning aftertaste still lingering on his tongue, Stefano began, "Which is why I wanted to ask—."

"You know," Clarissa piped up at the same time, and the sudden change in her tone made Stefano pause. Her voice had adopted a wicked tint. Stefano's grip on the tumbler tightened ever so slightly. "I can… _help_ take some of that stress away."

Stefano choked down his shocked scoff, letting it instead only come out as a sharp, heavy exhale through his nose. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh sweetie." Clarissa's words had turned into a purr. Stefano felt the impulse to jam something long and sharp into his ears at the sound. "You and Cellie _act_ like you've got this perfect little marriage going on, but I see you—you've got the look of a starved man." Clarissa sat forward. "Mark is going to be away for at least another three weeks, and Cellie… well, she doesn't have to be any the wiser. When her trial's over and the police let her go, I won't tell. What happens between us could stay between us."

Stefano was silent for a moment, and then leisurely laid on his arms on either armrest. He was never one to lose his composure for long, even with… unexpected confrontations like this one. "You're bold," was all he responded with.

"And _you're_ a fine piece of a man, you know," Clarissa replied. She uncrossed her leg and leaned forward. "So what do you say, big boy? Shall we head upstairs?"

This time, Stefano couldn't suppress his chuckle. "You misunderstand me, dear," he replied, still reclined in his seat. He swirled his glass, letting it gently clatter next to his head. "I don't know what gave you the impression to the contrary—I only bed women, not plastic dolls."

There was a heartbeat of silence before Stefano's companion was suddenly bereft of her eagerness. _"Excuse_ me?" was the sharp response.

"You heard me perfectly well and clear, you daft woman!" Stefano suddenly hissed. He was the one to lean forward this time, slamming his tumbler heavily down onto the coffee table. "Do you think me a Neanderthal? Barreling at you with my tongue hanging out just because you waggled your finger? I see your true colors now, you sad, _sad_ harlot! Now I've no hesitation—none whatsoever—to show you mine!"

With his hand still squeezed over the rim of the tumbler, Stefano stood. The thick glass bottom scraped against the polished tabletop as he leaned across the coffee table towards the nervous Clarissa. "What are you afraid of, dear?" he mused, his voice still saturated with cold anger. "I don't even need to ask, do I?" The fear in this pathetic creature's eyes was beyond beautiful.

He wouldn't kill her, though, as much as he yearned for the sensation of running a blade deep enough through her throat to scrape bone. For the sound of her scream to stroke his ears once he liberated that repulsive tongue from her mouth. No, he wouldn't kill her because she was still useful.

Stefano withdrew, sitting back in the armchair. Clarissa watched him, still speechless and frozen in place. "I know," he began slowly, his voice growing eerily pleasant as he picked his tumbler back up from the table, "that hidden away in Bermuda is a little secret of yours—a shell company silently pulling cash from your personal and company accounts. What delightful little things have you helped yourself with using that unpaid tax money, my dear? Oh, but hold on… a little bird also told me some of that money goes into foreign, silk-lined pockets. Bribery is a serious crime in this country, dear Clarissa. And considering your husband, it might even be pushed to treason."

He reveled in the shock on the woman's face. "Wh—what are you talking about?" she demanded in a shaking voice.

Instead of answering her, Stefano continued, "But… what happens between us can stay between us. You see, my dear, I came here with a favor to ask you."

"A… favor?" Clarissa repeated weakly.

"Yes," Stefano replied. "So listen closely—otherwise the little bird and its secret might fly off. I'll clip its wings for you if you go to the KCPD and give them an alibi for Celestina. Tell them she was with you on November 6. Tell them the two of you went out for drinks—ordering your Cosmos and Cucumber Fizzes. Make the alibi watertight and make sure they believe you. If not…" Stefano fluttered a hand, imitating a creature taking off. Still holding Clarissa's gaze, he tilted his head back and downed the last of the alcohol from the tumbler before rising to his feet.

"So…" he heard Clarissa mutter softly in her trembling voice. "You… or Cellie… or _both_ of you… really are the Krimson City Killer."

Stefano had already turned to leave, but looked back over his shoulder with a finger touched to his lips. "What happens between us," he told her gently, "stays between us."

* * *

How she was overjoyed at the news. And when the officers walked her out, she saw him there waiting for her. My, she was impressed. He'd been quite busy these past few days—being quite the puppeteer himself.

Alessandra had heard of how the prosecutor had quickly dropped from the case, citing 'urgent family matters' as the reason. The new one they appointed was far too unfamiliar with the details to be a decent replacement. The detective hardly had time to debrief him—not that he got the chance to. A witness had come forth, giving an alibi that the police weren't able to knock aside. Maybe they didn't even want to. It was so much easier to give in to the doubt—to finally end the gnawing and take the easy way out. Why would anyone accuse La Contessa, anyway? The way she complied so easily. The way she seemed so scared. The way she carried her baby in her.

They decided the evidence on hand really hadn't been enough, and that there hadn't been any to begin with. The hair, they determined, had been on the stolen dress and transferred to the victim when she was dressed in it. With that, they let the suspect go.

And when she was finally freed, she rushed to him when she saw him, crying, "Oh darling! Just take me home!"

With his lips still pressed in her hair, Stefano murmured back, "I told you I'd keep you safe from the bad detective, didn't I?"

And speak of the devil. Suddenly, from behind her, Alessandra heard a loud, furious, _"NO!"_ She pulled away from Stefano and looked back to see an officer pulling Ledford back before he could rush towards them.

She saw it in his eyes—that entirely different animal. Crazed. Desperate. Nursed by the betrayal from the people around him.

"What are you doing?" Ledford demanded to the officer holding him back. Then, he looked up and around. "What are you doing?" he repeated, his voice growing louder. "She killed her! _She killed my sister!"_

Watching the detective with frightened eyes, Alessandra pressed herself against Stefano, who bundled her close. "Oh… oh my!" she gasped, making sure those nearest heard her. "Is he okay?"

"Don't worry, amore."

Ledford suddenly pushed the officer away, but he didn't take one step closer to the couple. And even though he hadn't moved closer, Alessandra couldn't help but feel as if he had become that wolf again. It was certainly there in his eyes.

"This," Ledford growled in a low voice, "isn't over."

Alessandra pushed herself a bit away from Stefano to turn her head and meet the detective's glare in its entirety. "I think it is," she replied softly.

* * *

 _With joy and love, we welcome our angel_

 _GELSOMINA VALENTINI_

 _Born on July 23, 2014_

 _Weight: 6lb, 10oz_

 _Height: 17 in_

 _To proud parents CELESTINA AMONTE and STEFANO VALENTINI_

* * *

"She loves me. She truly loves me."

Things were now… strange. Different. The boundary had been breached, and there was no turning back now.

Little Gelsomina. Alessandra had picked the name, wanting the child to be as pure and beautiful as the jasmine flower itself. And as she said those words, cradling the small bundle, Stefano wondered once again what was wrong with him.

He had been there when the baby first touched air. It was a moment, he had heard, that was supposed to be life changing. And, well—yes, it was true that the experience was one he would not soon forget. But Stefano was sure the men who had expressed that sentiment hadn't reveled in the agonized screams like he had. That unadulterated pain that the little one put her mother through was unbelievable in the best way possible. It had been almost enough to let Stefano ignore the fact that Alessandra was crushing his hand into dust.

And then he had heard it—that dreadful sound. That cacophonous interruption of shrill wailing. That had been his first reaction to it. Disgust.

It was a sound he subsequently heard quite often. It was astounding that the windows of this home were still intact. He watched as Alessandra held the shrieking child and cooed to her until the racket mercifully died down. Stefano had even held the baby himself a few times, but she only ever felt like weight in his arms. That was it—he felt nothing else. And it made him wonder what was wrong with him.

But no matter. There were other issues to be concerned about. Their departure from Krimson City continued to be pushed further and further back. First the birth, and not to mention that Stefano was finding it harder and harder to pull in new material for his departing pieces. Security in the city had gotten much tighter, and Alessandra had grown too busy with Gelsomina to be his cohort.

And then came the call.

Like before, someone was asking for Celestina. Stefano didn't recognize the woman's voice on the other end of the line. Whoever it was, they wanted to talk with La Contessa. With that, Stefano passed the phone over to her. As Alessandra wandered away with it, Stefano stopped by the crib and looked down.

Little Gelsomina was asleep. Her black curls swooped down over her forehead. Every now and then, her small limbs would shift underneath the blanket. As Stefano watched, his mind focused on the conversation he overheard from the other room.

"Oh, I don't… well…" Alessandra sounded flustered. "Yes, it's true that we're planning to move—… yes, yes, leave Krimson City. I know. It breaks my heart as well. I'll always be Krimson City's sweetheart, but…" Alessandra paused. Suddenly, her voice grew startled and quiet. "Oh… I see. That is… No, I love the idea. It's just that I'll need some time to think about it. Can I get back to you?"

Gelsomina shifted again. A few moments later, Alessandra walked back into the room. The question was spring-loaded on Stefano's tongue, but he waited.

Alessandra took him by the hands and pulled him into the next room. In a bright voice that matched the excitement in her eyes, she told Stefano that La Contessa hadn't sung her last.

"Meaning…?" Stefano replied.

"That woman who called was the managing director of the Amaliene Opera House," Alessandra said. She tilted her head, and with a smile added, "Don't you remember, darling? That's where we first met face-to-face. Well, they heard about our plans to leave the country. Obviously they were devastated. That director insisted to me that Krimson City's sweetheart couldn't leave without one final, departing performance." She gave a tinkling sigh. "I thought none of the stages here wanted me anymore."

"Oh amore, you mustn't think like that."

"I suppose you're right. And to think people consider the notion of a mad artist to be outlandish. To pour one's heart and soul into a loveless passion, well… that's enough to drive anyone mad, isn't it?"

"And are you going to take the offer?" Stefano asked.

"Am I… well, yes," Alessandra replied. "I have always loved the stage. It's where I can feel the warmth of that spotlight." A bittersweet smile touched her lips. "My last performance. You'll be there, won't you?"

"Of course," Stefano said. "I'll bring my camera."

The first few weeks of August saw Alessandra busy, going to the opera house often for stage rehearsals. She bought a long silver gown for the night, and never once did she touch that curling iron. They had hired a sitter to look after Gelsomina, though Alessandra went home often in between rehearsals. There was nothing, she insisted, that could replace a mother's touch.

Often times Stefano would accompany Alessandra. She wanted a photographer capturing shots of her departing performance, and Stefano knew there was no one else fit for the role. During rehearsals, Stefano would be told where and how to move around the stage as to not be spotted by the audience and detract from the performance. Once again, he mused, he was the unseen photographer. Standing to the side—a spectator to it all, just as he had been all those years ago on the battlefield. The silent observer waiting for his masterpiece.

August was busy indeed. As such, neither of them noticed the brief flash of news that Detective Jackson Ledford had seemingly disappeared. No one had heard from him in months, and the worst was suspected. Some even wondered if the Krimson City Killer, the target Ledford had been chasing after for years, had something to do with it.

When the night of La Contessa's final performance arrived, the opera house was a hub of activity. The audience was enormous—made up of old, loyal fans, curious newcomers, and those who had grown familiar with La Contessa's name from the news.

A seat at the very edge of the front row had been reserved for Stefano for the times he wouldn't be photographing the stage. He wanted to sit back and watch La Contessa in all her glory—sing like the muse she was.

Stefano reclined in his plush seat, watching the lights softly illuminate the stage. The choir was lined on either side of the large staircase at stage center. At the top of the stairs was a decorated archway. A harp and a piano sat at either ends of the stage.

It began with the choir singing the preluding chords of _Ave Maria_. There was movement at the top of the stairs. A spotlight focused underneath the floral archway, and the light reflected off of the silver of her trailing gown. The pianist began playing, and moments later La Contessa's voice joined it.

Among the dark sea of faces, Stefano watched as she delicately made her way down the steps as she sang, her heels peeking out from underneath her hem with each step. She stopped at the center of the stage, where she stood and continued the song. As he listened to her dulcet voice, Stefano closed his eye and found his mind drifting.

It'd been a while since he had gone home—a while since he had seen his family. But this would be different. He'd be bringing his own family. Alessandra would find no trouble being welcomed to the stage in Italy. And Gelsomina…

Stefano would teach her how to use a camera. He'd teach her how to develop film. He'd have her nurture her own style, all the while ensuring that it was a worthy one to succeed him. He'd encourage her to find her own muse. And if she insisted that she didn't need one, he'd tell her, "I used to be like you. And then I found your mamma."

The song ended and the audience clapped. Stefano opened his eye. He lifted his gloved hands and joined in the last of the ovation. Then, as the last of the applause was dying away, he quickly slipped from his seat. The Veritas camera that had been resting in his lap was clutched in his hand as he made his way silently through the aisles so that he could crouch close to the center of the stage. He raised his Veritas to his face and, through the viewfinder, focused on La Contessa. He watched her carefully, finger posed over the shutter button to press down milliseconds before she struck elegant poses during her song.

This Veritas, though heavily outdated, was like a dear, old friend. It had never let him down, and he reserved its use for his most important shoots. The photographs it produced, he believed, still blew any digital camera's out of the water.

This was the camera he would use for the majority of the performance. And then, waiting off to the side of the stage, was another posed on a tripod. It was already pointed to where La Contessa would stand when she took her final bow to her audience. There was no need to adjust it further, and all Stefano needed to do was make sure the focus was steady and take the picture.

He waited for that moment. For now, it was time for Stefano to return to his seat. As he did, he found himself antsy. Quickly, he willed himself to focus on La Contessa's singing. He gazed up at the woman on the stage. Ah, his Alessandra.

No doubt they would leave Krimson City with it still abuzz about her sudden deviation from her iconic curls. They would wonder what the motivation was behind her change of style. And no one would know, save the two of them. Yet another dirty little secret tucked beneath their picture perfect image.

Stefano recognized La Contessa's last song when she began it. Once again, he stole away from his seat and entered the corridor that would lead him backstage. There was only one photograph left to take.

He stopped at the posed camera, still watching La Contessa over it. During the intermission, the stairwell had been rolled off the stage. Now, for this last song, even the accompanying choir and musicians had gone. The orchestra pit was still. This final song consisted of only La Contessa and her piano.

Stefano remembered this song. She had played it when he first saw her on stage. And then, for the several years that followed, she had played it for him in their home while he sat in his armchair and listened.

It felt almost bittersweet when he heard the end approach—those chords that told him nothing lasted forever.

Her last note touched the air. Following shortly after it was the grand applause. Stefano saw La Contessa rise from the piano seat. He moved behind the posed camera and stooped down. Through it, he watched her step into the composition. She stood there, placed exactly in her designated spot, and gave a low bow to the raucous audience. Her hair slipped from her shoulders and draped down on either side of her face. She let her bow linger for another heartbeat—just a little moment longer—and then rose. La Contessa was once again in focus.

And then a horribly loud noise ripped sharply through the air. It cut through the noise of the applause, and the theatre immediately silenced. The hands of the people were frozen in front of them as though trapped in place by a photograph.

Stefano wasn't sure what that sound had been. All he knew was that it hadn't ever gone off during rehearsal, and so he wasn't supposed to hear it. If not for the reaction of the audience, he wouldn't have even been sure he actually heard it.

He was still looking through the viewfinder at La Contessa—at his Alessandra. But something was off about her. She stood, rigid. Stefano watched her take a step back, and it was then that he realized she was clutching her neck tight in one hand. She had moved from her spot, and now Stefano could see her face. Her eyebrows were tensely knitted together in a look of shocked confusion. A horrible feeling was beginning to settle in the pit of Stefano's stomach.

He saw her twitch as she took a breath. And then she spasmed again. Brilliant red suddenly flooded out from behind her clutched hand and between the tightened fingers. It was the most beautiful color Stefano had ever seen, and he watched as it streamed down and coated her pearls. Red took over white seamlessly.

The confused audience was quickly snapped out of its trance at the sight of blood. To them, it screamed of danger even though La Contessa did not—was not able to—make a sound. Shrieks of panic stained the air as audience members flooded out of their seats and pushed for the exits. The pleas of the opera house staff to please remain calm and evacuate in an orderly fashion fell on deaf ears. No one stopped for La Contessa as she choked.

But there was one who had not moved. Through the eyes of the camera he watched more and more blood escape. It leaked from behind her hand and dribbled down her chin from her mouth.

Art in every sense of the word. He couldn't have asked for a more perfect piece. But for some reason, he couldn't quite recall what made this one _so_ perfect.

Then he saw her stumble back and catch herself on the piano. The abrupt movement seemed to jolt Stefano awake.

 _No… No! NO! Not her! Not my—!_

The photograph was never taken. Stefano tore his face away from the camera, peering over it with a widened eye before barreling onto the stage. As he flew past it, his shoulder hit the camera and tipped the tripod. The glass lens shattered on the ground.

La Contessa crumpled. Stefano caught her before she sank to the floor and held her so that she gazed up at him. Her distressed eyes were confused and afraid, and all Stefano could do was stare down at them. She coughed, and more blood erupted from her mouth to coat her already slick chin. A shaking hand rose up to grip his blazer. The cloth underneath was immediately stained. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Stefano could see the bullet wound that had punctured her throat.

He didn't realize how much he was shaking until he found trouble in unclasping the single button on his glove. When it was free, he tore it from his hand so that he could bring it to her face—his Alessandra. His muse and his inspiration… now another masterpiece. As he stared into the fading light in her eyes, he wanted to plead for her to stay. To leave the city with him. To keep him from being the entirely different animal on his own.

But the pleas stayed with him, and only one thing emerged from him for her to hear.

"Amore," he told her, "look how beautiful you've become."

He could feel it when she left him alone—a blow more painful than any physical wound. She had become the most stunning piece he had ever laid eyes on, but he couldn't bear to look at it. Her hand had dropped from his blazer and lay limp on the stage floor. Her body was still draped in his arms—a perfect visage of death. But from the way he fit so flawlessly with the contours of her corpse, Stefano couldn't help but feel as though he was also part of this piece.

And so be it. Let this artist finish their work.

Stefano's crazed eye swept across the empty auditorium. There wasn't a soul in sight. "Well?" his wilted voice demanded angrily across the echoing chamber. "What are you waiting for?"

But nothing came. No one was there to deliver the final brush stroke.

Defeated, Stefano dipped his head down. He pressed his lips against her forehead. It was still warm. She still could have been there. But he knew better. He was all too familiar with death.

Stefano squeezed his eye shut and listened to the distant sirens. _Don't go, amore_ , he begged. _Don't leave me. I still need you_.


	28. Lest We Remain

It had been nearly 20 minutes since the EMT team had arrived at the hospital with the covered stretcher. They had already determined her to be deceased at the scene. Now all that could be done was for a doctor to declare her legally dead, and then…

Well, then came the fallout. The quiet fallout. It wasn't the first time he had gone through this experience.

Paramedics had also brought in a live body—the only other person found at the scene with her. This person had been catatonic, he'd heard. None of the paramedics' questions would be answered. All they could do was make sure he was uninjured and bring him to the hospital in a separate ambulance.

Unsurprising, the doctor thought. What else was to be expected from a man found cradling his lifeless wife?

He made his way through the hospital halls and arrived at a particular door. Slowly, the doctor turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped through.

He was sitting at the foot of the hospital bed, still dressed in the suit they had found him in. Christ, there was so much blood on his blazer. What looked to be a handprint was stained dark on his lapel. He didn't look up as the doctor stepped in. As quietly as he could, the doctor pulled up a stool and sat down a short distance away from him.

"Mr. Valentini," he said, "is now a good time to talk?"

He didn't answer at first. The doctor figured he would have to come back later. But when he was on the verge of standing, Stefano spoke up in a very quiet voice.

"When…" he began softly, "can I see her again?"

Oh boy. It seemed he was completely disconnected to what had happened. This was going to be tough. The doctor took a moment to carefully choose his next words. "Mr. Valentini, right now we need to make sure you're okay. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"I just want to see her again. She was… so beautiful."

At that, the doctor had no words.

* * *

It was time. Per his request, Mr. Valentini had been given 15 minutes of privacy with the open casket. But 15 minutes had passed, and now it was time.

Once the coroners had gathered as much as evidence as they could and filed the official autopsy report, Celestina Amonte's body had been released from police custody and readied for her funeral.

It was cloudy today, but it wouldn't rain. Still, there was a somber heaviness that seemed to hang in the air. And when the pastor stepped into the empty church, he felt that heaviness weigh down tenfold. There, a single man stood at the end of the rows and rows of pews. His back was turned as the pastor made his way down the room. He wore a suit that matched his hair—funeral black.

The pastor slowed as he approached Stefano. His eyes lowered and too looked down into the velvet-lined casket. Her youth broke the pastor's heart. She lay with her hands over her stomach and a small bouquet of chrysanthemums tucked in them. A long silver gown reached down to her ankles. It came up to her neck in a cuffed halter-top that covered her neck.

"Silver," the pastor remarked, finally breaking through the thick, invisible barrier.

"I thought she might feel more at home in that color," Stefano replied. "She always preferred it over red."

"That's interesting. She always appeared on stage in red."

"It was just an image to portray," Stefano muttered. "Like La Contessa herself—just an image."

"I'm sure you knew her better than any of us." When the pastor didn't receive an answer from Stefano, he continued, "Son, it's time."

"I know," Stefano replied heavily. "I just…" He gripped the edge of the casket, the black leather of his gloves creaking softly. "I…" He reached forward, as if to touch the woman's cheek, but suddenly withdrew his hand and returned to the casket's edge. "What do I do now, Father?"

"You give yourself time to grieve," the pastor answered. "Time to mourn and time to feel the loss. And in doing so, you will allow yourself the opportunity to recover. Find peace in the thought that she is with God now."

"What has this world _done_ to me?" Stefano demanded, his low voice seething with a quiet anger. "And don't you—don't you _dare_ tell me that this was by God's design, Father. Why would He take my Ales—?" Stefano suddenly stopped, and then continued, "Why would He take Gelsomina's mother away from her?" At the end of his enraged rant, Stefano suddenly let out a breath. He took another deep one, and in a calmer voice said, "I… I didn't mean to be disrespectful, Father."

"No, my child. This grief and anger you are feeling—this is normal. Feel them through to their ends. As for your questions, I'm afraid I don't have an answer to them." The pastor glanced over his shoulder and repeated, "It's time."

Stefano's hands dropped from the casket. He took a step back, though his eyes remained on her. The pastor considered closing the casket now that the funeral was about to start, but instead offered Stefano the opportunity to do so. He did, lifting a hand to hold onto and pull down the casket lid. Before it was shut, and while Stefano could still see her, the pastor caught the man whispering something to her. But it was in Italian, so the pastor didn't understand his parting words.

During the funeral, every bit of seating in the pews was filled and the standing room was crowded. At the altar behind the casket, the priest delivered a brief eulogy. "I remember," he said as his speech came to a close, "when she attended Father Allen's funeral. As they lowered him into the ground, she and a choir sang Amazing Grace. She'd the voice of an angel. Celestina will be remembered as such—and as La Contessa, Krimson City's sweetheart, a kind friend to many, and a loving wife and mother."

A few others spoke as well. When it was Stefano's turn, he said little. His eyes remained on the casket as he said, "We were of the same ilk, and now it's just me. She is irreplaceable. My world has lost its color."

The midday sun had just passed its zenith by the time the funeral-goers filed solemnly out of the church and into a graveyard where a plot of land had been excavated. Those who had attended the funeral of Celestina Amonte passed, without noticing, a small grave with a headstone that read: "In loving memory of: CAROLYN LEDFORD." Resting against the stone was a fresh, purple iris flower.

The sun continued to drop ever closer to the horizon as the burial service took place. Those later questioned would say that Stefano remained graveside the entire service, and even after.

And then, that was the last anyone ever saw of him.

The next day, a 911 call was made from the home of Stefano Valentini and the late Celestina Amonte. When the operator picked up, no one responded from the other end.

* * *

The loss of his family—first his daughter, and then Myra—wasn't going to stop him. Even if it made the bags under his eyes much more pronounced and the flask hidden on the inside of his jacket his new best friend, Sebastian was a Krimson City detective and not a damn thing was going to change that.

The day after Celestina Amonte's death was declared, Sebastian had been assigned to the case. Also paired with him were junior detectives Kidman and Joseph Oda—a brilliant young officer that had charged through his training with flying colors. Sebastian'd had his fair share of working with the both of them. He couldn't have asked for better partners, especially with a case as sensitive as this. Given the victim's fame, the press would no doubt be following closely.

They had some time before they were expected at the crime scene, and so the team took the opportunity to read over the case files in Sebastian's office. Sebastian focused on the autopsy report. One shot through the throat—puncturing the trachea, esophagus, grazing the spine, and exiting out the back of the neck. The bullet had been narrow, akin in shape to a sniper bullet but smaller than the standard. Cause of death had been loss of blood.

Sebastian heard Joseph give a doleful sigh and looked up. The dossier of Celestina Amonte was in the young man's hands. "Just had a baby a little over a month ago," he muttered. "That's rough. Real rough. Kid'll never know her mom."

"All the more reason we need to catch whoever did this," Kidman said, leaning forward and tapping her fingers on the papers as she did so.

"Kid's right," Sebastian said, placing the autopsy report back into the folder. "Come on—you guys about ready to head down to the opera house?"

"It'll be the first time I've ever been, to be honest," Joseph admitted as he stood.

"Same," Kidman piped up.

Sebastian sighed. "Guess I'm the odd one out."

 _"You've_ been? You?"

"Once," Sebastian clarified. "Took Lily there to see a concert." At the mention of his daughter's name, the detective's face suddenly paled. Kidman and Joseph immediately shot nervous glances at each other. But the silence was suddenly broken when Sebastian abruptly stood, his chair scraping loudly on the floor. "Let's go," he said in a voice that failed in its attempt to feign ease. The three of them exited Sebastian's office and stepped out into the parking lot where a patrol car was waiting for them.

The entire opera house had been shut down for the investigation. Police cars were parked along the entire curb at front, and the parking lot held more. The detectives' patrol car dropped the three off at the front.

According to a radio call, the investigators had found something at the opera house that needed Sebastian's attention. He saw an officer waiting by the gold-handled front doors of the opera house.

"What'd the boys find?" Sebastian asked the officer, who motioned for them to follow him inside.

"A hole," the officer answered as they walked, "in the wall of the opera house. It's about two inches in diameter." They stepped into the main theatre room. After leading them a short distance down one of the aisles, the officer turned and pointed at a spot high up in the back wall of the theatre. Sebastian looked up and saw that a spotlight had been focused on the wall. He squinted, just able to see a black speck and a scene marker next to it.

"So," Sebastian said, "does forensics think it was the bullet that made the hole?"

"No sir," the officer replied. "The edges of that hole are smooth, most likely drilled. They think it was made preemptively to the shot."

"That's insane," Joseph spoke up, looking down from the wall to Sebastian. "That turns this entire case on its head. This isn't just murder, then—it's an assassination. Premeditated and carefully planned."

Things were just getting worse and worse. "Has forensics traced the path of the bullet?" Sebastian asked.

"They have. Based on the angle, the killer could have only been on the roof of a nearby office building. It's about half a block that way," the officer answered, pointing.

"So they weren't even in the opera house," Sebastian growled under his breath, sweeping his eyes around the theatre room. "On the night of the murder, police closed in on the opera house from all angles. Secured every nearby block, including that one. And if the killer was perched on that roof, how did they manage to escape?"

"Could have camped out on top of the building until the heat died down," Kidman suggested.

"No, police were swarming that office building within an hour of the murder," Sebastian said with a brisk shake of his head. "Every nearby structure was checked in case the killer had taken shelter in any of them. And if they'd tried to escape, ground patrol would have spotted them."

"What are you suggesting then?" Joseph asked.

Sebastian's eyes grew distant as he thought. "Not sure," he admitted. "I'm not liking the possibility, but something tells me the killer knew exactly where to go. Which part of the net would be the last bit to close."

"Someone who knows how an emergency lockdown works?" Kidman gleaned from Sebastian's line of thinking.

"Maybe. It's all just speculation for now," Sebastian said with a sudden shrug of his shoulders. "I want to see this office building rooftop first. Has it been secured?"

"Yessir," the officer replied. "I'll take you there."

They looked, but nothing was there for them. No bullet shell, no trace of DNA. All that forensics had been able to find was a small amount of burnt gunpowder residue that didn't tell them anything they didn't already know. The detectives decided that they had gathered all they could from the crime scene and headed back to the precinct to go over the evidence.

Then, a week after Celestina Amonte's body was released from the Coroner's Office for burial, a 911 call was received. There was no one on the other end. And given the identity of the residents, Sebastian was included in one of the two police cars that were sent to the home.

Sebastian stood back from the porch as an officer went up to the door and knocked loudly. He then identified them as the Krimson City police loudly, making sure anyone inside heard. There was no answer. The officer then gave a warning that they were coming in if they still didn't receive a response.

No answer.

It took a couple of rams before the door was broken in. As officers flooded in, they heard the shrills of a wailing infant. When Sebastian heard it, he stopped in his tracks before continuing to move forward. They passed what looked to be a studio space. And then they found her.

Underneath the window was a crib. Above it dangled a mobile of butterflies and flowers. The blanket inside the crib shifted as the crying baby thrashed her limbs, made terrified by the sound of the door breaking in and the officers moving around the house. On the little table next to her crib was the porcelain figurine of a ballerina and a handwritten note. Sebastian picked it up and read it.

 **Goodbye, Gelsomina. I've gone to find your mother.**

They noticed that no coats were hanging on the rack by the door and the car was missing from the garage. A search for Stefano Valentini was instigated. And, because the police assumed the message on the table to be some sort of suicide note, they were on the search for either a man or a body.

Upon further investigation inside the house, officers found a button hidden behind the left ear of one of the busts in the studio space. Sebastian was alerted, and pressing it elicited a soft click that came from the darkroom. They found the hidden door that led underground. Sebastian felt the temperature drop as he descended down the stairs, the cold clinging to his skin and seeping down to his bones.

Motioned-triggered lights came on when he neared the center of the underground room. At the very end stood four glass displays—all empty. On the wall behind each was a large, ornate frame. But these too held nothing. Whatever pictures they had bordered were gone.

A phone call was made to the Amonte manor in Milan, Italy. Upon learning that it was the local authorities, the maid passed the phone to the lady of the house.

It was then Emilia learned that American authorities were trying to get into contact with her. Her granddaughter was in Krimson City, and Emilia was the closest remaining family left. They were requesting that she come and take custody of the infant.

Emilia asked what had happened to her daughter. Upon hearing the answer, she put the phone down and sobbed. She struggled to recover enough to finish the call. When she did, Emilia told the person on the other side to let the Americans know she would be flying over as soon as possible.

It had been a difficult phone call to make, but Sebastian knew it was the only thing they could do for the child. That day had been a long one. He'd sent Kidman and Joseph home, while he himself drove back to the department to pick a few things up from his office. He needed his laptop and a few hard copy case files to look over. Evening may have settled over Krimson City, but there was no rest for the wicked.

Besides, he didn't like being alone with his thoughts. Not anymore.

The hallway lights of the precinct were on, though the ones inside individual offices were off. The mismatched lighting gave the building a… well, Sebastian couldn't exactly describe it… some kind of odd feeling. Like something was there, but not quite.

Sebastian walked down the hall and turned the corner. He spotted the door to his office. But instead of being closed as he had left it earlier that day, it was slightly ajar. Sebastian let a slow, heavy breath through his nose. Honestly, he wished the cleaning crew wouldn't do that as often as they did. The detective crossed the distance between him and his office. He pushed the door open. Reaching to the side, Sebastian flicked the lights on.

He walked around his desk to unplug his laptop from the monitor. But before he could, his eyes fell on something and he paused. There was something sitting on top of the closed lid of his laptop.

The copper-colored KCPD detective badge had been placed face up. Its front was defaced by writing in permanent marker. Sebastian picked it up. There was no name on the badge, only a serial number on the back. But he already knew whom it belonged to without having to look the number up. His office had been sitting abandoned for months now.

Sebastian flipped the badge over to its front, where there was the message: "I did what I had to."

* * *

The radio was on, tuned to some talk show station. Pop music muffled by a closed door played somewhere else from inside the house. A man sat at the dining table, still dressed in his work clothes though his jacket was draped over the back of his chair. Dirty plates, the remnants of dinner, were still on the table. The man's attention was currently focused on the article on his phone.

There was a soft creak—that one floorboard behind the man's chair that always made a sound. But before the man could turn his head, the cold barrel of a handgun was pressed against the back of his graying hair.

There came a hissed, "Don't make a sound unless I tell you, or you're dead."

He could feel the man's fear manifest instantly. The phone clattered onto the table, and his hands quickly rose defenselessly.

"Now turn around. Look at me." The man obeyed, looking into eyes that were covered by black shades. He knew the man wouldn't be able to recognize him—not with the shades and the black half mask that covered his face up to the undersides of his eyes.

"I'm giving you one chance—one chance only. You tell me why you defended that criminal tooth and nail. You tell me why you facefucked justice instead of fighting for it."

"I… I don't—."

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about!" he hissed, pressing the gun harder against Newell's forehead. "Thanks to you and this fucked up system, she didn't get what she deserved! Not until someone had to step over the line!"

"S-she… Celestina?"

"Nail on the head, old timer," he spat bitterly, tapping his own temple.

"I was—oh god, please—I was only doing my job!"

"Your job, huh?" He leaned closer. No doubt Newell could see his own terrified reflection in those black lenses. "Let me make it clear, fucker. You're meeting your god tonight. It's judgment day. Now's the time to confess while you still can."

"C-Celestina, she… she was innocent! I'd known her for a long time! She would've never—!"

So that's what he was going to take to the grave, huh? "Wrong answer." His finger dipped down to the trigger.

"Dad?"

 _Shit_. He heard a soft, frightened gasp behind him. He turned his head, and that's when Newell really began to panic.

"No, no, no, please, not her! Just let her go!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her standing there in the doorway. Fear had paralyzed her. When she realized that he had noticed her, only a soft, fearful, "Don't… please don't…" escaped her lips.

She was young. Around the same age as…

"Turn around. Walk away. Pretend you never saw anything," he ordered harshly. The girl shook her head.

"Honey, just listen. It'll be okay."

"Are you… are you going to kill my dad?"

"I said _go!"_ he roared.

"Jackson." It was a different voice that spoke now. "Stop."

Of all people… "Seb," Ledford greeted casually, though his gun remained trained on Newell's head. He was well aware Sebastian had his own weapon aimed at him. "You really shouldn't have interfered."

"I thought the worst when I heard about the killer's clean escape. Then you just had to stop by my office and confirm it," Sebastian said, his voice nursing a quiet rage. _"I did what I had to._ Is that how you saw it?"

"I thought," Ledford said, each word iterated with force, "that you of _all people_ would understand."

"What I understand is that you've gone off the rail, and I can't let you hurt more people."

"They are NOT people!" Ledford suddenly shouted, finally turning to glare at Sebastian from behind the black lenses. "They are monsters—all of them! I should have believed her when she told me that! I tried playing by the books, Seb, and you saw where that got me! I lost my sister! I found her killer, but everyone was against me! The whole _fucking_ world was against me!"

"Jackson," Sebastian said, speaking slowly now. "Listen to me… just… listen. I know how you're feeling. Believe me, I know."

"And?" Ledford demanded. "Let me ask you this, then—what if someone had started that fire? What if you knew and no one else believed you? You'd hunt the fucker down, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it took."

He saw Sebastian hesitate, and then say, "The man you've got your gun pressed against isn't responsible."

"Not responsible? He helped her walk!"

"He was tricked, just like everyone else! Don't punish him for that!"

Ledford's finger hovered over the trigger, twitching towards it. He remembered those words spoken to him years ago. _There are glaring differences, yes. But maybe… some underlying similarities._ Those words had haunted him from underneath his skin since then.

Monsters weren't born. They were made. No… he wouldn't let himself. That one-eyed fuck may have slipped away before his comeuppance could be delivered, but he wasn't going to drag Ledford down to his level in his wake. Finally, Ledford rested his finger back over the grip and pulled his gun back.

"Jackson—."

"I'm not going back, Seb. Can't. I'm leaving, and this is the last you'll see of me unless you shoot me dead tonight." He turned, and the shot to stop him was never fired. The suspect, Jackson Ledford, disappeared from that house before backup could arrive.

He made good on his word, and after the night he let Ledford go, Sebastian never saw a trace of him again. A top suspect had been named for the Amonte case. All that was left was the manhunt to find him. With the case at its satisfactory stage, the three detectives were taken off from it to let others direct the hunt.

They were headed back to the precinct in a patrol car when the call over police radio came in. It was an 11-99 being called at a facility called Beacon Mental Hospital. Their unit was the closest. As the patrol car sped towards the hospital, Sebastian gazed out the rain-stained window.

* * *

 _ **Addendum: Just a heads up - this is the penultimate chapter. And, as I'll be heading out of the country next week and returning mid-January, this might be the last update of 2018. First, I'd like to sincerely thank you for reading and your constant support. Have a wonderful rest of the year, and here's to an even greater 2019!**_


	29. Sane in Appearance

How naïve he had been in thinking that he would find any sort of closure today. He had stood silently with the others as they had lowered heap after heap of earth over the polished wood, when in actuality he had struggled not to scream out, "What are you doing?"

What _were_ they doing? They had covered up the greatest piece that should never have been. His Alessandra—his horrid, cruel muse. The only one who gave him what he really wanted: appreciation for what he truly was. And that, he had never really understood until he'd met her.

But now… she had dealt him the cruelest blow of all. Wounded him just as that shrapnel had a lifetime ago, only this one could not be treated by any surgeon. To be left alone with nothing more than simpletons. Philistines. Beings that had just managed to crawl out of the prehistoric mud. Alessandra had shown him a glimpse of paradise—the only heaven he'd ever get close to, he knew—and pulled it away. Dropped the curtains. He had been yanked out from the fantastical world of the stage. Now that the lights over the audience had returned, Stefano was reminded of just what a disgusting world he was trapped in.

 _Am I getting what I deserve?_ he wondered. _Is this punishment for not conforming to the flock? I can't change what I am. Not anymore._

His hands, folded at his front, tightened. No, it wasn't his fault. It was the world that had wronged him. This stupid, _stupid_ world. Nobody was ever kind to the different animals. They had been born sick, then pushed and pushed until forced evolution turned them into something rather…

Well, if it was a monster they wanted, a monster he would be.

The sun had long since begun to set, now only a dismembered semi-circle glowing blood red in the horizon. The funeral-goers had gone, having left their flowers on the grave. Some had given Stefano sympathetic consolation, which he hardly cared to hear but had pretended otherwise. But service was over, and they found no other reason to remain. The graveyard quieted down. It should have been returned to the ghosts, but he was still there because unlike them, he still saw the reason to.

He couldn't bear to leave, chained in place by denial and anger. He couldn't stomach the thought of going back to that house, where all that empty space would haunt him forever. Not while the cold ashes of his inspiration remained here.

Stefano's gaze traced the name etched across the extravagant headstone. He realized the beautiful irony that this stone and its sister—the one all the way across the ocean in Milan—housed opposite occupants. The thought was almost enough to humor him.

But then someone approached him from behind. Stefano kept his gaze on the many bouquets that colored the wide space in front of the headstone. Whoever it was stopped to his right—his blind spot. Stefano remained motionless, unwilling to turn his head, and silently dared this newcomer to speak first. They did.

"You look like someone…" It was a man. "… who needs to disappear."

"What I _need_ is time to myself," Stefano corrected, his voice taking on a harsh undertone.

"I see," the stranger replied, his voice growing soft. "My condolences."

Stefano didn't respond this time, irately waiting for this nuisance for company to leave. But it didn't seem like they were taking the hint. Stefano stared at one of the two angel statuettes flanking the headstone. Seconds ticked by and he was growing impatient. Just as he was about to voice his demand to be left alone, the stranger spoke up again.

"Have you realized by now who did this?"

Startled, Stefano finally turned his head to look at his companion. He was a bald, dark-skinned man dressed sharply in a dark maroon dress shirt under a black suit. The corners of a burgundy pocket square peeked up from his breast pocket.

"No?" the man deduced from Stefano's silence.

"Who?" Stefano demanded. He didn't know who this man was, or how he knew, but Stefano's desperate urge to know any sort of truth towards Alessandra's killer drove him to overlook these mysteries.

"I'd call him a different kind of animal," the man responded, still looking down at the colorful grave. "Though he wasn't always like that. You could say he was pushed over the line." Finally, he turned his head to look at Stefano. There was a scar that rippled across his cheek, texturing it with mottled tissue. At the sight of it, Stefano was reminded of his own scars hidden underneath his hair—echoes of an end and a beginning.

"Pushed? But…" Realization struck him, and Stefano's eye widened. "The detective?"

"You flew too close to the sun, my friend. He fled the city that very night to avoid capture, but he's planning his return. You do know why, don't you?" The man turned back to the grave, and casually continued, "His work isn't done."

So… Stefano had made a madman out of that detective. Another one of his creations. Then that meant… No, he couldn't bear the thought, but some part of him forced him to face it. That meant he—Stefano himself—was responsible for Alessandra's death. She hadn't just become a masterpiece. She had become _his_ masterpiece.

A louder voice within Stefano objected. It screamed and thrashed and resisted. No! It wasn't his fault! He would keep repeating that until it was the only truth he could hear. It wasn't his fault! It was that detective! That man, turned a monster. An entirely different animal. But instead of preying on the weak and exposed, he had turned on his own.

"So," Stefano finally said, his voice heavy, "if I am to believe you, then does that mean I'm a dead man walking?"

"Yes… _that is…_ " The man's voice shifted into that of sympathy and amiability, "unless you let us help you."

 _Help me?_ Stefano's eye flickered down as the man's hand suddenly neared him, holding a small brochure. Bold text at the top read MU CENTER, with a Japanese character double exposed inside the letters. A slogan in smaller font underneath said "Create a Better Reality For You." Below that was some sort of… insignia? Angular lines coming together to form and eye reminded Stefano of an Egyptian design, but with a bit of a medieval torture flare.

Oh no, not this. He'd heard of this Mu thing. A small, largely unheard of Scientology wannabe was what it'd been described to him as. They preached some odd variety of nihilism, believing that the acceptance of meaninglessness would allow one to achieve spiritual freedom. Or at least that's what Stefano had heard one of their crazies shout from a street corner once.

Instead of taking the brochure, Stefano put up a rejecting hand. "I was raised in a Roman Catholic household, you know."

"Raised? What about now?"

"Well," Stefano muttered, "I haven't been feeling very close to God as of late."

"Close or not, you'll meet Him soon if you don't take this."

This man, up until now, had done a very convincing job making Stefano believe in his conspiracies. But that had all shattered as soon as he proffered this Mu Center brochure, establishing him as nothing more than a crazy religion nut.

"And, if we were to entertain your prediction for just one moment, what makes you think me joining your little cult will help? Oh, don't tell me you're aiming to have me free my spirit before I die." Emotions were swirling like a tempest inside of him—pain from the loss of his muse and stark irritation at this brash fool for attempting to solicit his nut case of a religion to Stefano at the dusk of a _funeral_ no less.

"This isn't simply just an invitation to visit the Center," was all the man replied. The brochure was still held out. Giving in, Stefano took it, though he knew it was more likely than not going to end up in the trash by the end of the day. "The organization I'm a part of is constructing a… let's call it a project. A very important one. And we could use a mind like yours."

Stefano skimmed over the distasteful cover of the brochure again. His thumb rested over the edge, on the cusp of opening it. "What kind of project?"

"I'm bound by layers and layers of nondisclosure agreements, unfortunately. That's all you can get for now, I'm afraid, until you sign up. I will let you know that should you agree to the terms, you can disappear from the public's eye entirely. No one will be able to find you. _No one."_

"Sounds ominous," Stefano mused, finally opening the laminated paper. There was a small piece of paper tucked inside what appeared to be a run-of-the-mill church brochure. Stefano turned the small card to read its finely printed text.

 **I am prepared to take the next step.**

There was nothing more on the card, even when Stefano flipped it over. "What's this about, then?"

"Present it to the pastor when you arrive at the Center," the man answered.

"This card rather puts the words in my mouth, doesn't it?"

"I'm merely offering you a choice. What you choose to do with that card from now on is entirely up to you. Just remember what I've told you. Are you willing to take that risk?"

"And I can instead choose to disappear? Discard everyone from my life?" Stefano paused, suddenly remembering his one last tether to this crass world. "Even…?"

"She can't come with you," the man affirmed. "The next step can only be taken alone."

At that, Stefano didn't respond. When the silence stretched on, his companion continued, "Consider this, then—when he finds you, he'll likely find her. I can't predict what he'll do. And if your trail leads elsewhere, he'll probably follow it. She'll be in the clear."

"You're mistaken," Stefano muttered. "I only wanted her because Alessandra wanted her. But now…" His voice suddenly grew firm. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't. You know what?" He held the brochure up. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I wanted to hear, my friend," the man said, growing content. "Find peace in whatever decision you make." He turned to leave. Stefano heard his steps padding softly over the grass and quickly spoke up.

"I didn't catch your name."

The quiet footsteps paused. "Theodore," he responded. "And should you choose to pay the Center a visit, ask for Father Theodore."

* * *

Piano notes tinkled in the air when he opened the door. Startled, Stefano wondered whether he had finally awoken from the nightmare where he had lost her and returned to the better reality. But as he stepped inside and walked into the studio, he saw that it was the babysitter's head peeking out from behind the piano. Silently, he walked towards it until the girl finally noticed him. The simple song was abruptly cut off.

"Oh, sir, I—."

"I didn't give you permission to touch that," Stefano snapped.

"I…" The girl looked meek. "I'm so sorry. It's just that Mina really liked the sound of—."

"Get out! Leave your key on the table." he spat, throwing his coat carelessly over the nearby armchair.

The girl was shocked. The prepayment they had given her meant she still had another two weeks to look after Gelsomina, but that hardly mattered anymore. None of it did.

The girl rose. She gave another uncertain glance towards the crib. "Sir, please. Maybe I should—."

"I said _out!"_

The girl jumped at the sudden rise of volume in Stefano's voice and quickly did as he ordered. As soon as the door closed behind her, the house was plunged into stillness. Stefano sighed heavily, suddenly feeling the weight of everything that had happened on his shoulders. He reached into the pocket of his coat and took from it the Mu Center brochure. With it in hand, he walked over to the piano and took a seat on its stool.

Stefano opened the brochure and took out the small card. He flipped it over and over in his hands, watching the text disappear and reappear. This had never been part of the plan. There was supposed to be a plane ticket in his hand, and Alessandra's arm in his as they took their leave from this wasteland of a city. He was supposed to be an artist, utilizing the thoughtless medium that walked outside in swarms on the streets. And now… he was nothing.

 _Why did you leave, Alessandra? Leave and take_ everything _with you? You even took what was left of this pumping mass inside my chest. You wouldn't give it back. I watched you disappear under mound after mound of dirt, and still you wouldn't give it back._ _What did you end up leaving me with? A dead future… and an artist with no inspiration._

The sound of soft wailing broke the stillness. Stefano looked up from the small card in his hand, his gaze drifting towards the crib. Quickly, the wailing grew, puncturing the air with shrills that escalated louder and louder. The card stopped flipping in Stefano's hands.

"Quiet, Gelsomina," he said irately. The baby's crying did not cease. "Enough… Gelsomina, that's enough… _I SAID QUIET!"_ He flew up onto his feet as he screamed, throwing the card aside. _"Quiet, you nuisance! You burden! You were never part of this plan!"_ He stormed past the crib, intending to end the shrieking in the only way he knew how.

The kitchen knife—the same one that had been used to end Carolyn Ledford's life. It was in his hand when he made his way back to the crib. "I said…" Each word, pushed through gritted teeth, was punctuated with a heavy breath. He approached her, hand lifting and bringing with it the cruel, pointed blade. "I said q—!"

Stefano had reached the edge of the crib. And as he did, his eyes fell on her. Not the baby, but the porcelain ballerina tucked in the corner next to the infant's head.

Alessandra had placed it there on that day, right before she had left for the opera house. Stefano could hear her now—a ghost of a voice singing softly to comfort the distressed child.

The tight grip he had on the knife's handle weakened. And then the blade slipped out of his hand, clattering onto the floor next to his feet. No, he couldn't silence this one—this last trace of Alessandra. His little girl.

"Oh… oh god," he whispered breathlessly, leaning down heavily on the railing of the crib. "What's wrong with me?" Stefano lifted his head, and then slowly straightened up. Hands reached out and gingerly took up Gelsomina. And when he brought her against him, cradling her against his shoulder, Stefano finally felt her as more than just weight. He felt her warmth, her little arm reaching up to wrap around his neck. He felt her despair fade as he patted her back. "Quiet now, Gelsomina." This time, his voice was gentle and soothing. "Quiet, piccolina." The infant stilled. Stefano looked down and saw that she was gazing up at him with gray-blue eyes that mirrored his own.

"There, that's it, piccolina mia." A shuddering sigh escaped him as he broke his gaze away from hers to look at the card on the piano stool. His brow was furrowed as he came upon the realization that he would never watch Gelsomina grow up. He would lose the last thing Alessandra had left him, save for the ethereal images in his head.

 _She can't come with you. The next step can only be taken alone._

Stefano turned his eye back to Gelsomina. With a hand, he delicately pressed her head against his shoulder. "There now. Listen to me—Papa has to go now, okay? Papa has to go… but someday… someday I hope…" His words trailed off. To be honest, he didn't know what he hoped.

He dipped his head down and gently kissed Gelsomina on the forehead. Then he moved towards the crib and lowered her into it. The baby blinked drowsily up at him. Stefano took one last moment—one last glimpse of her—before walking away. A note with a briefly scribbled message was left on the table with the ballerina that was the sole witnessed to all that truly happened.

When it was time for him to go, he took the card from the piano stool and picked up his coat. One last stop was made to the phone where Stefano dialed 911 and set the phone down next to its receiver. The door opened, closed, and the house once again fell to stillness.

* * *

Another candidate in the queue—just one more, Yukiko determined, and then it was time for a lunch break. She clicked the profile, the top in a very long list. It was daunting how small that scroll bar was. And this was just on the Union subjects list. There was also the Mobius recruitment tab, though the list on that one was smaller… just a little. That was the bulk of her job these days—interview after interview. She was beginning to see the person at the other end of the table as more of just an answer machine than a human now.

Let's see… Candidate-04196. Were they really that far now? Damn. Before she even read his name, Yukiko quickly skimmed over his test results. Each Union candidate was subject to three separate psychological tests, each designed by her and a team of other Mobius-employed psychologists. Then, if each test was scored above an acceptable threshold, the candidate would get a face-to-face with the doctor herself—the last line of defense, so to speak, keeping harmful minds away from the delicate infrastructure of their STEM system. Yukiko had personally caught a few unstable candidates that had managed to deceive their way through those non-sentient tests. And even when she wasn't sure, she always trusted her gut.

Yukiko took up her desk phone, pressed a three-digit number, and brought it to her ear. "Interview Room Four," she said as soon as she heard a voice from the other end. "Candidate-04196. Mmhmm. I'll just need 15 minutes… yes, on the dot. Thank you." She hung up the phone and returned her attention to the computer monitor.

Alright, 04196. He passed his tests with good scores. A near-perfect average psyche… well, with a somewhat eccentric personality. But Mobius hadn't tasked her with screening attitudes. And what's more, 04196—oh, his name was Stefano Valentini. Hmm… okay. He'd come voluntarily through the Mu Center. Probably ate whatever honeyed words Theodore had given him.

Yukiko's eyes skimmed over the details Mobius intel had nabbed on this candidate. 04196—Valentini, she meant, telling herself she couldn't slip up and call a candidate by their number in the interview room again—had just recently been widowed. Apparently his wife had been killed by a gunman on the third of September. Well, it was no wonder Theodore had managed to pull him in. Those centers did a good job of bringing the destitute to Mobius's door. Yukiko made a mental note to make a question out of that. Emotions, especially distressing ones, made for good mental profiling.

Let's see, earlier biography—born in Italy, went to university in Rome, did photography work overseas. Wait… there was a name redacted here. Yukiko's brow furrowed as she read over the paragraph. Apparently Valentini had a friend who'd served the Italian army. Official reports marked this friend as KIA in 2002… so why was his name redacted then? Well, no matter. Whenever Mobius censored information, Yukiko knew it was for reasons she was better off not questioning.

Yukiko's eyes jumped to the clock in the corner of the screen. Five minutes until the interview. She rose, shut the monitor off, and pulled the long, white coat from her chair. Honestly, the coat was more for show than anything—nothing screamed 'doctor' to an ignorant Union candidate more than a white coat.

She made her way to the elevator. It was one out of the only two elevators in the entire facility that reached her floor. Yukiko stepped in once the doors opened, pushing the starred 1F button. As the cabin moved upwards, her eyes drifted to the black paneling below the floor buttons. To the unaware, there was nothing strange about it—above the smooth, blank surface were the normal buttons found in any elevator. But only with a properly authorized Mobius chip would the rest of the panel be activated. Until then, 1F appeared to be the lowest floor, sitting just above the ground. Well, there was that saying about icebergs…

The elevator dinged once the first floor was reached. Yukiko stepped out, barely acknowledging a coworker that was getting into the elevator in her stead. As the doors closed, he appeared to be reaching below the buttons.

She found Interview Room Four and stepped in. There was still a minute left before the scheduled interview. A folder was open on Yukiko's side, with documents of small text neatly organized within. They were all for show—this was a test of psychological stability, and the only information Yukiko needed was what her eyes and ears gave her. The candidate would be none the wiser, likely told some façade that this would be an evaluation of his skills and qualifications.

Fifteen minutes on the dot. The door opened, and Yukiko heard someone being ushered in. She rose, turned, and found herself faced with a black-haired man in a crisp, tan coat. "Mr. Valentini? Good to meet you. I'm Dr. Hoffman," she greeted, proffering a hand. He took it, and Yukiko almost jumped at the cold touch of his glove.

"A pleasure as well, Dr. Hoffman. And just Stefano is fine—Mr. doesn't stand up very well against Dr., anyway," the candidate replied lightheartedly as they dropped hands.

"Of course. Have a seat." Yukiko gestured towards the open chair as she took her own. Stefano made his way around the table.

"Do you mind if I…?" Stefano asked, pointing to his chest while his other hand already rested over one of his coat buttons.

"Go right ahead. Wouldn't want you to overheat during the interview." _That's not a joke, Yukiko. Not a joke. Why did you say that?_ She waited quietly for Stefano to remove his coat, drape it over the back of his chair, and take a seat. "Let's begin. I'm going to ask you a series of questions, and I want you to answer them as honestly and naturally as possible. If you would prefer not to answer a question, you may request to skip it." A skipped question told Yukiko just as much as an answered one. "I'll try to honor your request as best I can, but understand that there are some thing I need to know about you during this interview. Are you ready?"

"I am."

She started off casually by asking about his childhood growing up in his hometown of Florence. "Well," Stefano replied, leaning back in his seat, "I'm afraid I can't really answer that, Dr. Hoffman. I wouldn't really consider Firenze my hometown. I put that as my place of birth on the application, but my parents moved south to Salerno when I was… oh, around the age of three. I can only ever remember the seaside, which is why I consider myself a Salernitano over a Florentino."

Stefano shifted, and Yukiko could hear the quiet scraping of his shoes as he switched which leg to cross. "Later on, as a young man, I ended up traveling north to visit Firenze—just to get a feel for the place of my origins. It's quite an enormous city. Much, much bigger than Salerno and so rich with culture and art. It was a bittersweet realization to see just what I missed out on during my upbringing."

"I see," Yukiko replied. "Well then, let me present to you a hypothetical question: let's say if you were to… rewrite history, so to speak, would you have it so that you stayed in Florence and never moved to Salerno? Knowing what you know now?"

The candidate took a moment to consider the question. Yukiko took that brief lull to study Stefano's posture has he deliberated. He seemed… conflicted. There was an obvious answer, but something was keeping him from giving it.

"No," he finally said. "As you said—knowing what I know now… I'd still stay in Salerno."

"That's understandable. Florence is unknown, but you remember the friends and memories you made in Salerno, don't you?"

"Yes… there was someone." Yukiko thought back to the redacted name.

"Who?" she dared to ask.

Stefano's gaze was fixated on the corner of her open folder as he answered in a vacant voice. "A man who was willing to trade his life for millions upon millions of strangers he'd never meet, and ended up doing just that." There was a pause as Yukiko waited, but Stefano said no more.

"I see," she replied. "That's very unfortunate. I'm sorry for your loss."

"That wound has long since healed, Dr. Hoffman. Or perhaps I just don't feel the pain from it anymore. An old gash pales in comparison to a fresh, bleeding one."

Yukiko feigned ignorance. "What do you mean?" In her opinion, it was best not to let candidates know she had just been reading over disturbingly detailed dossiers of them just prior to their interviews.

"Have you not been paying attention to the news lately, Doctor? An opera singer was murdered on stage. Her death was witnessed firsthand by hundreds—like a macabre performance itself."

"I see. And this singer was your…?"

"Wife."

"Oh." Yukiko let her voice drop low and soft. "I wasn't aware. Can you tell me more about what happened?"

Stefano's eyes flickered up to Yukiko's before dropping back to the table. "Can we skip this question?" he requested softly. He was exhibiting the classic traits of someone experiencing strong emotions but attempting to suppress it. It was common, especially among men. So far during this interview, Yukiko had seen no red flags. Not even any subtle ones.

"Yes, of course. But… why don't you tell me more about her? Your wife—who was she?"

Stefano gave an emotionless scoff. The corners of his mouth may have turned up, but he was not smiling. "An interesting woman," he answered. "You'll be the first person I admit to that deep down, she was hiding a very, very troubled soul. She wore a mask while she seduced me, and it wasn't until much later that I finally glimpsed what was underneath it. Maybe what I saw should have horrified me, but I already loved her too much. And that was my downfall. That's what made it hurt when she…" The candidate seemed unwilling to finish the rest of his sentence, only concluding his words with a shaking of his head.

Yukiko's career had brought her in contact with several psychopaths and sociopaths. Try as they might, they couldn't hide from her practiced eyes. There was always something off about them—some unnatural blip or absence of genuine emotion.

But there was nothing more genuine than what Yukiko saw in the candidate's eye as he spoke his next words. "Because of her, I now know what it means to be truly alone."

After a few more minutes, Yukiko concluded the interview and thanked the candidate for his time. She had seen and heard all that she needed. When she returned to her office, she reopened Candidate-04196's profile and had him approved to be included in the Union project. With that, she closed his profile, shut off the monitor, and stepped out of her office for her lunch break.

* * *

 _ **With that, this story concludes.**_

 _ **Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm just another crazy Stefano fan, and I felt like he, along with other characters in EW2, had a lot of character potential that the storytelling in the game didn't do justice. I'm not questioning the writing talent of the development team - time and budget constraints were probably the true culprits. As such, I wanted to attempt a story myself.**_

 _ **Oh yes, and OC pairing. Not gonna deny it.**_

 _ **But hold on, this story ain't over (no matter how much you want it to be). Be on the look out for sequels - yes, plural - coming out in the near or distant future. There'll be a second story taking place during the events of The Evil Within 2 along with a short prequel linking Grander Design to that.**_

 _ **That's it. Take care, everyone.**_


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